Other Worlds

 

Lisa has spent her life seeking.

 

Through meditation and philosophy, through failed relationships and the desperate hope that love could be a shore she might finally reach—she has searched for a home she cannot name, a wholeness that always seems to recede just as she approaches it.

 

Then the dreams begin.

 

In them, she is Lise. She wakes in a sun-drenched kitchen to the smell of pancakes and sea air, to the weight of a child in her arms and the warmth of a husband who looks at her as if she is the ground beneath his feet. A life of quiet contentment, of sticky fingers and bedtime stories and the patient, eternal rhythm of waves against the shore.

 

A life that is not hers.

 

But the dreams do not fade. They deepen. The glitches multiply—a clock that loses a minute, a reflection that hesitates, a single word scrawled in her journal by a hand not entirely her own: REMEMBER.

 

And then she meets Lise. On a beach, across fifty yards of shimmering salt air, her own face staring back at her with the same desperate, homesick longing she has carried her entire life.

 

Two women. One soul. A single consciousness stretched across the loom of time and space, living two complete, contradictory lives with equal reality.

 

The universe cannot sustain this paradox forever. The pressure is building, the glitches escalating, the walls between worlds thinning to transparency. Lisa and Lise are being drawn together by the gravitational pull of a soul trying to remember itself.

 

And one of them must choose which story gets to be true.

 

Other Worlds is a novel about the lives we didn't live, the selves we left behind, and the radical, terrifying act of choosing—not the better story, but the one that lets us love most fully from the center of our own becoming.

 

It is for everyone who has ever wondered about the road not taken.

 

For everyone who has ever felt homesick for a place they've never been.

 

For everyone who has ever looked in the mirror and sensed, in the hesitation of their own reflection, that they are far more vast—and far less alone—than they ever imagined.