Sand finds its way into my shoes each time they hit the ground. It had been years since I last visited this park, though I suppose I never really had a reason to before. So why was I here then? Good question. It's a strange thing to realize how strongly the human mind craves the familiarity of what once held such fond memories when we find ourselves in darker times.

When I was a young girl I'd often enjoy coming here to play on the swings for hours where I'd dream up the most ridiculous things, the kind of things only children can imagine. But I'm not a child anymore. It seems like such a trivial thing to be scared of, but when you're on the cusp of what separates you from the cozy little bubble you've been in all your life, it can be a bit daunting.

I throw my head back as I swing, watching how the sky above me twists each time I rock forward. My fingers tighten around the metal chains holding me up when the sensation of falling begins to creep into my mind, but before I could actually fall, my heels dig into the sand to stop myself. I'm left with the vague awareness of how numb my legs have become and the way the ground sways beneath my feet when I push myself off of the swing.

Part of me wonders how long I could stay here before I'd be forced to return home. Judging by the setting sun, I'd say not long enough. It's moments like this when I realize that time was never a casual acquaintance. It feels like just yesterday I was bounding across the deck of my childhood home with my butterfly net in hand and now time is dragging me onward, steadily leading me further and further away from those memories whether my feet want to follow or not.

As soon as I regain my balance I begin making my way up the steep hill toward the parking lot. However, my legs seemed rather keen on not listening to me and I end up stumbling over the curb and right into a large puddle. The distinct feeling of discomfort soaks through my shoes and I curse under my breath, glaring at the puddle like that was going to do anything. Once the rippling water stilled a familiar face welcomed me in its reflection.

I know this reflection. I've seen them many times before, though they're never here for me. I've come to learn that they are the thing we are taught to fear when the ticking clock is no longer mere background noise but rather a constant reminder that you're now running out of time. The reflection looks no different from you and me but perhaps that's just what they want me to see.

I lean towards the puddle and the reflection smiles, beckoning me closer. They extend their hand to me and against my better judgment I reach out to take it. The reflection breaks through the surface of the puddle and their cold fingers make contact with mine, drawing me even closer. Before I'm able to comprehend what's going on, I'm pulled entirely into the puddle. My first instinct is to hold my breath, but as soon as the water hits my face and I no longer feel the reflection's hands on me, I realize I can still breathe.

Splashing from above draws my attention upwards. When I look up at the sky a shallow optimism fills me as I see the thin veil of water that shields me from the world outside of the puddle. Suddenly, the unbearably loud ticking of a clock begins to ring in my ears. It gets louder and louder until I can no longer bear it. Hard concrete meets my knees as I fall to the ground with my hands over my head in agony.

Someone's voice rose above the incessant ticking. It was my voice.

My trembling hands move from my ears to the ground as I attempt to steady myself. I managed to force my eyes open and look at who was taunting me. The reflection was back. Except now they sported my own face.

"That's not how this works. Time doesn't stop for anyone,“ she says mockingly.

"But you already knew that didn't you?" A softer, more cheerful voice replaces her distorted taunts.

I blinked away the tears that clung to my lashes. When I could see again, I was face to face with myself from all those years ago. She was holding her butterfly net, smiling up at me the way I often did when I knew something the adults didn't.

The child's voice became distant and water began to fill my lungs once more. I gasped for air as the world around me began to crumble, collapsing like a shattered mirror and cascading to the floor. Every shard reflected my panic-stricken face as I flailed desperately, trying to save myself.

Finally, as if it was but a dream, the vision faded like froth on the ocean and warm sunlight hit my eyes. The feeling of soft sheets at my back was enough to let me know that I was now safe in bed, despite having no memory of coming home. I squinted when the light from the window hit my eyes. It was that point in the evening where dusk and night collided in a radiant burst of orange and purple.

A distant voice hummed in my head once more as I gazed upon the setting sun.

"You'll be fine,"  it echoed.

"You'll be fine."