The words You're not supposed to be alive wouldn't stop echoing in Grace's head.
They followed her home, haunting every breath, every footstep. She replayed Daniel's face — that measured calm, that warning laced in pity. It didn't feel like a threat. It felt like a truth she wasn't meant to know.
By the time she reached her apartment, the city was sinking into dusk. Shadows crept across the walls, wrapping the place in a silence too heavy to breathe through. She dropped her bag on the floor and stared at the door for a long moment before locking it twice.
Her reflection in the mirror looked foreign — eyes rimmed red, skin pale, hair tangled from a day spent wrestling with ghosts.
Who am I in all of this? she thought. The wife who was betrayed, or the woman who wasn't supposed to exist at all?
On the dining table lay the only thing she hadn't been able to throw away — a small wooden box, the kind that carried memories instead of valuables. It used to sit on Mark's nightstand. Inside it, she'd kept his old journal, some photographs, a few business cards. She opened it now, her hands trembling.
The smell of old paper filled the room. His handwriting — that neat, confident scrawl — stared back at her. She flipped through the pages until she found something that didn't belong: a sealed envelope wedged between two sheets.
It was addressed to her.
Her heartbeat stuttered.
The envelope was dated six months ago — the same month Mia had started showing up more often, the same time Mark had grown quieter. She tore it open carefully, fingers shaking so badly that the paper nearly ripped.
Inside was a single note, written in his hand.
> "If you ever find this, it means they got too close. Don't trust anyone — not even the ones who claim they're helping.
You were never meant to remember everything.
— M."
Grace's breath hitched. Remember everything? The words made no sense.
She read them again, again, again until they blurred.
Her phone buzzed suddenly on the table, making her jump. A message from Ethan lit the screen:
Ethan: Found something. You need to see it. Come to my place — now.
Her stomach twisted. She typed back quickly.
Grace: What did you find?
No reply. Just the double tick. Seen.
She grabbed her coat, the letter still clutched in her hand. The city outside was drenched in neon — a thousand lights flickering in puddles like a thousand lies. The drive to Ethan's apartment was short but endless, her mind racing through possibilities. What had he found on that flash drive? Why had Mark written as if someone was watching them?
When she arrived, the hallway was dimly lit. Ethan's door was half-open, the faint hum of a computer spilling through the crack.
"Ethan?" she called softly, stepping inside.
No answer.
Her pulse quickened. The air felt wrong — too still, too cold.
The apartment was neat except for the desk. The laptop screen glowed faint blue, lines of code and documents flashing across it. She moved closer, eyes scanning the words.
> PROJECT ECHO — SUBJECT: G. Carter-Warren.
Status: Recovered Memory Suppression Incomplete.
Note: Terminate access if contact reinitiated.
Grace's blood ran cold. She scrolled down, every click a heartbeat. There were photos — her and Mark at their wedding, her hospital ID from years ago, scans she didn't understand. Words like "trial," "memory therapy," and "containment" leapt from the page.
"Grace," a voice whispered behind her.
She spun around.
Ethan stood in the doorway, his face pale, eyes wide. "You weren't supposed to see that."
Her voice shook. "What the hell is this?"
He took a slow step forward, hands up. "I was trying to protect you. Daniel wasn't lying — Mark was part of something… something that shouldn't have involved you."
"What did he do to me?" she demanded.
Ethan hesitated. His silence said more than words ever could.
"Tell me!" she screamed.
He looked at her like a man holding a confession that might destroy them both. "You were part of an experimental program, Grace. Mark worked with them. It was about memory alteration — trauma erasure. You were… you were the subject."
Grace's knees nearly gave out. "That's impossible."
"It was supposed to help you," Ethan said quickly. "You'd been through something — something terrible. Mark thought if you forgot, you could start again."
"Forgot what?" she whispered.
Ethan's eyes dropped. "Mia."
Grace's pulse roared. "What about her?"
He swallowed hard. "You and Mia weren't supposed to exist together. One of you was… a replication. A psychological echo. You were never supposed to remember that you were the one who survived."
The words struck like lightning, too bright, too sharp to comprehend.
Grace staggered back. "You're lying."
"I wish I was."
Tears stung her eyes. "Then who am I, Ethan? Which one am I?"
He looked at her — broken, guilty, terrified. "The one who wasn't supposed to be alive."