The day usually begins with opening one’s eyes.

It’s very strange to be woken by light that fades into view as your eyelids become more and more transparent and then stop existing, and to find that you’re floating above your pillow without a physical body is not an improvement.

I expect you’d be thinking the same thing I was at first – that you were dreaming. You wouldn’t be able to shake the feeling that this is far too vivid, far more real than a dream has a right to be, but, you’d tell yourself, it’s just a dream.

I’d soon realise I was wrong, but reality isn’t always easy to recognise. Or admit.

The light from the street wasn’t much, and I wondered if I could operate a switch without a body. As I thought about my desire for illumination, everything slowly grew brighter.

Any time I thought about light, it turned out, whatever I was using for eyes would adjust to the dark, far better than my human eyes ever could. That’s when I noticed the sheet of paper on the bed. A letter in Mother’s handwriting.