Chapter 34: Echoes of the Forgotten Future
The morning sun filtered softly through the curtains, casting a gentle, golden sheen across the polished marble of the Ainsley kitchen. The air smelled of cinnamon toast and sea-salt butter, with faint notes of orange peel from the tea steeping on the counter. Eva sat at the table in her pale blue pajama set, a tiny crown of bed-tousled curls perched on her head like a wild halo. Her small hands cradled a warm mug of cocoa, her fingers curled tight around the ceramic like it might drift away if she let go.
Evelyn was at the stove, flipping pancakes, still in her robe with her hair hastily twisted up in a silk scarf. Vivienne leaned against the island, peeling a pear with studied grace, the paring knife glinting every few seconds as it made its way down the fruit's skin in one long ribbon.
They were humming—a little off-key but together. The kind of domestic harmony that couldn't be choreographed. That just… was.
And yet, something shifted in the quiet space between hum and breath.
Eva's gaze drifted to the wide window above the sink, where morning light poured in through condensation and the barest hint of frost. Her eyes began to unfocus. Her fingers slackened on the mug. The room seemed to blur at the edges.
And then it was no longer morning.
No longer home.
*****
Memory Echo: The Overworked Genius
The lights above her buzzed with a cold, sterile flicker. Everything in this world was white or chrome or glass. The room smelled of antiseptic and ozone, like something had just been sterilized—or scorched. She sat in a high-backed chair, alone at a wide desk that wasn't hers, her body folded inward, as if trying to make itself smaller.
Eva—or rather, the older self that had once gone by that name—was twenty-two.
Or perhaps twenty-one.
She couldn't remember.
She was brilliant. An outlier. The kind of mind that came along once every century, if that. Algorithms bent to her logic. Quantum puzzles clicked into place beneath her fingertips. Equations that had stumped research divisions for decades unraveled in a single feverish night.
But none of it brought her peace.
She was monitored constantly—watched by a team of faceless administrators through translucent panels and observation decks high above her working station. Every keystroke was logged. Every breath, measured.
"You're three days behind schedule," a flat voice echoed through the intercom. It might have belonged to a woman. Or a machine.
"I've already surpassed the projected milestones for Q3," she said, not looking up.
"Surpassing is not the objective. Sustained excellence is. Continue."
She did.
Of course she did.
She always did.
No one had taught her to stop. There had never been a reason to. She had no parents. No photographs of childhood. No record of lullabies or scraped knees or stories told at bedtime. She'd been discovered—"retrieved," they said—when she was five. She didn't remember who from.
Her childhood had been test chambers and memory drills. By eight, she was solving problems that made adult scientists blink in disbelief. By eleven, she was authoring patents she couldn't legally own. By thirteen, she no longer asked if anyone loved her.
Love, after all, wasn't useful.
She had cried, once. Just once. When a professor who had briefly mentored her was reassigned to another sector.
"Why?" she had asked the next day, lips trembling.
"He was a distraction," they'd said. "We're maximizing your output potential."
It had been her final protest.
Now, the Eva of that world—older, genius, alone—sat before a massive interface screen filled with equations and blueprints that looked more like star maps. Her eyes, rimmed with purple shadows, scanned lines of code faster than most people could read headlines. Her fingers ached. Her back throbbed. Her stomach growled faintly from two skipped meals.
She had reached the apex of productivity. She was their prized asset.
And she was dying.
She didn't know it yet, but her heart had been weakening for months. No one had checked. No one cared.
That evening, she blinked twice to clear her vision and looked up at the hollow lab window, where her reflection stared back at her.
"I want to go outside," she whispered. "Just for one day."
There was no reply.
The voice returned. "Resume your assignment. Phase Five begins at 0300."
She tried.
She really did.
But sometime between line 407 of the neural simulation and a recalibration of the gravitational field array, her body collapsed. One hand reached for the desk. The other clutched her chest. Her mouth opened, but no sound came.
And when she hit the floor, there was only silence.
No one came. Not until it was far too late.
Her death was recorded as "unexpected neural failure due to overexertion."
She was never given a name in the official files. Just a code.
"Subject EV-0."
*****
Return to the Present
Eva blinked, her vision swimming back into focus. The kitchen was warm again. Her mug had gone cold. Her chest ached faintly, like a bruise beneath her skin.
And there were tears on her cheeks.
She didn't remember crying.
"Eva?" Evelyn's voice was close, soft. Concerned.
Eva turned, trembling.
"I remembered something," she whispered. Her voice was small. Thin. "A place where I worked too much. Where I was all alone. No one… no one cared if I slept. Or if I ate. Or if I…"
She broke off.
Vivienne was kneeling by her now, eyes dark with worry. "Breathe, darling. Just breathe. It's okay. You're here now."
Eva nodded slowly, pressing the mug to her chest like it might anchor her to the present.
Evelyn brushed the hair from her face. "Can you tell us more, baby?"
"There was a room," Eva said. "A cold room. And they made me work. I was older. But I was still small, inside. Like now. And I died."
Vivienne sucked in a breath.
Evelyn sat down beside her, eyes wet. "Oh, my heart."
"They called me 'subject,'" Eva said. "I didn't have a name. Not one that mattered."
Vivienne held her tightly. "You have a name now. A beautiful name. And a home. And us."
"We would never let anyone hurt you like that," Evelyn said fiercely. "Never."
Eva clung to them both, the warmth of their bodies chasing away the phantom cold of that remembered future. She sobbed—quietly at first, then louder—as grief poured from a place too deep for words.
It wasn't just sadness. It was mourning.
Mourning a life stolen. A girl never held. A genius worked to death and discarded like a machine.
They stayed there for a long time. No one touched their food.
Eventually, Eva's sobs quieted. Her breath evened.
She pulled back just enough to look up. "Why did that happen to me?"
Vivienne kissed her brow. "I don't know, baby. But you're not there anymore. You're with us."
Evelyn nodded. "And we'll make sure you never feel that way again."
"But what if I remember more?" Eva asked. "What if it gets worse?"
Evelyn looked at Vivienne. They were silent for a moment. Then Evelyn said, "Then we'll hold you through it. No matter what."
"And when it gets better," Vivienne added, smiling softly, "we'll dance in the kitchen and make chocolate cake."
Eva looked between them. Slowly, her lips curved into a faint smile.
"You promise?"
"Forever," they said together.
*****
That night, after dinner and bath time and a story with extra funny voices, Eva lay curled between Evelyn and Vivienne in the big bed. She hadn't wanted to sleep alone.
"I was strong," she murmured as she drifted. "Even then."
"You were," Evelyn said, stroking her hair.
"But I'm stronger now," Eva whispered. "Because I know what love feels like."
Vivienne kissed her temple. "And that, my brilliant girl, is what makes all the difference."
Eva closed her eyes.
And dreamed not of white rooms and cold lights—but of gardens, and laughter, and sunlight streaming through a warm kitchen window.