... a very different bedroom.
The first thing he noticed was that the bed felt wrong, narrower, lumpier than his own. The sheets had a different texture, and the air carried a faint, unfamiliar scent that he'd later identify as that of coal smoke and lavender. This wasn't his bedroom back home in middle America. Blinking in the dim morning light filtering through heavy floral curtains on a sash window, he sat up slowly.
A strange, heavy weight pulled at his chest, shifting uncomfortably as he moved. He glanced down and frowned. Something was definitely pushing out against the front of his pyjamas - thick, traditional cotton ones with buttons up the front and long sleeves, nothing like the t-shirt and shorts he usually slept in. The fabric tented noticeably over two large, rounded shapes that hadn't been there when he went to sleep. Heart hammering, Jon reached up and undid the top few buttons with trembling fingers, peeling the material aside.
Two very large breasts, full and prominent, sat on his otherwise unchanged male torso. They looked about the same size as the ones Karyn had accidentally wished onto herself yesterday with the stone, maybe even a bit bigger. He stared, stunned, then poked one tentatively. The soft, warm weight jiggled slightly under his touch. This was real.
As he did, long strands of dark blonde hair tumbled forward, briefly obscuring his view. It reached down just past his new breasts. He brushed it aside in confusion, only to notice his fingernails: neatly manicured and painted with a glossy, pastel pink polish that caught the light.
Still reeling, Jon quickly slipped a hand down into his pyjama trousers to check between his legs. Everything felt normal down there, he was still male where it counted. Did I just think of them as trousers? he thought, momentarily distracted by the odd word choice that had popped into his head.
“What...?” he whispered. The word came out with a soft, gentle accent very different from his own. British. He sounded unmistakably British.
Swinging his legs out of the narrow bed, he crossed to the sash window and pulled the curtain aside just enough to peek out. He was looking down onto a narrow, unfamiliar street lined with identical brick terraced houses, their chimneys puffing thin smoke into the grey sky. A couple of vintage cars, boxy, black things with rounded fenders and running boards, were parked along the kerb. Nothing like the wide, open American suburbs he was used to, with their driveways and pickups. This was somewhere else entirely.
Turning back into the room, his eyes landed on a calendar pinned to the wall beside the bed. The top page read “April 1955” in bold lettering, and below it, in smaller print: “Compliments of Jack Jones Butchers, Lewisham, London.”
“1955? Lewisham? London?” Jon said aloud, the unfamiliar British accent still present in every word. “That’s… that’s impossible.”
Spotting a full-length mirror standing beside a wooden dressing table, he moved toward it on shaky legs. The table was covered with various jars, pots, and tubes of beauty products he didn’t recognise at all: cold creams in glass containers, a box of powder with a puff, tubes of lipstick in metallic cases, small bottles of what might be perfume or lotion, and hairbrushes with ornate handles, all looking old-fashioned.
He stared into the mirror. His own face looked back at him, exactly the same 18-year-old boy’s features, same jawline and eyes, but framed by the long, smooth dark blonde hair cascading over his shoulders. The pyjama top still strained slightly over the prominent breasts. He turned slightly, confirming it was all real. His male body was otherwise unchanged.
“This can’t be happening,” Jon muttered, running his painted fingers through the unfamiliar hair. “The stone… that stupid wish. ‘Something interesting.’ It must have...”
A sharp knock sounded on the bedroom door interrupting his thought
