Isabelle backed away from Mike, her breath shaky, mind reeling.
“I used to be your son, Mike. Jeff,” she said finally. The words felt foreign even to her ears, but she knew they were true. “You raised me. And now… now I don’t even exist anymore. Not really.”
Mike stepped closer, his expression earnest, almost desperate. “That doesn’t matter,” he said gently. “None of that matters anymore. Look at you—look at us. You’re not Jeff now. You’re Isabelle. And this is real. What we have right now—what we could have—is more than just memories or roles. names or relationships don't matter now”
Isabelle’s heart pounded. She wanted to deny it. Wanted to scream. But she could feel the memories tugging at her, sensations stirring in her chest, her skin, her very core—feelings that didn’t belong to Jeff, but somehow did belong to her now. Her body remembered touch, closeness, passion, even though she technically had never lived through those moments.
Mike reached for her hands.
“I’m not saying it’s simple,” he said. “But love isn’t supposed to be. I know who you used to be… but I also know who you are Now. And Right Now You’re my Wife. You have been for years—in here,” he pressed a hand to her chest, “and in here.” His other hand touched her temple.
Isabelle’s eyes brimmed with conflicted tears. “You can love someone who used to be your son? You can just forget about your wife? About Jess and Megan?”
“I can love my wife, because that’s who you are now,” he said, firm but soft. “And you can’t look me in the eye and tell me you don’t feel something. I see it—right there. In the way you’re shaking. In the way you looked at me just now.”
Isabelle tried to speak but couldn’t.
“You can’t tell me that body doesn’t know,” Mike continued. “You can’t tell me it doesn’t remember all those nights—how it felt to be held, kissed, loved. You may not have lived them as Jeff, but you’ve become someone who did. Those memories… they’re real somewhere in you.”
A hot flush rose through Isabelle's body—not from embarrassment, but from an inexplicable sensation of familiarity. The way Mike smelled, the way he spoke to her, the way his hand touched hers. It all resonated with a part of her she hadn’t known existed until now. Her body reacted—not with revulsion, but with a deep, aching confusion.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” she whispered.
Mike cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks. “You’re Isabelle. You’re my partner. My Love! And as for the kids…”
He smiled, brushing back a lock of her hair.
“We can bring them back. Or… we could start over. Right now If You Wanted. Build something new together. Something beautiful.”
Isabelle stared at him, caught in a crosscurrent of conflicting truths—what she was, what she had become, and what she might want to be. Her body ached with phantom memories she never lived, and her heart was unsure if it was haunted or hopeful.
She didn't answer. Not yet.
Isabelle’s voice was soft, uncertain, but tinged with hope. “You promise we can get them back?”
Mike nodded, smiling gently. “If that’s what you want… absolutely. With this device, time’s not a problem anymore. We can live the good life for as long as we want. Years, even. And when we’re ready, we can bring them back—make it so Jess and Megan never even realized they were gone. Eighteen and five again, like nothing ever changed.”
Isabelle looked down at her hands, the familiar yet foreign shape of them, her expression conflicted. The weight of the moment hung between them. She closed her eyes and let out a slow breath.
“Then… maybe we can wait a few years before trying,” she said at last.
Mike’s eyes lit up, interpreting the words as a sign that she was ready to move forward. He reached out, wrapping his arms around her as if to reassure her that everything was going to be okay now. The gesture wasn’t rushed or forceful—just warm and close, like a couple rediscovering each other after a long, strange journey.
As they held each other, Isabelle remained still for a moment longer, letting herself feel the strange comfort. A part of her mind was still screaming—unsure, unsteady—but another part, the part that had grown into this life, was beginning to feel at home.
Not all questions had answers yet. But for now, she let herself rest in the warmth of the moment.
Mike held Isabelle close, his voice low but insistent. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Your body remembers. The warmth. The connection. That’s not fake, Isabelle. That’s real.”
She pulled back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes, searching for some glimmer of the man who once tucked her into bed as a child, who used to be “Dad.” But now, standing before her, he didn’t feel like that person anymore. He felt… like something else. Something new. And terrifying.
“This body isn’t mine,” she whispered. “These feelings… they’re not mine.”
Mike cupped her cheek gently. “Maybe not originally. But they’re yours now. And if you’re honest with yourself, I think part of you knows that. These aren’t just ‘memories’—this is your life now. Let me help you experience it… not as who you were, but as who you are.”
Isabelle closed her eyes. The sensations were confusing—warmth, nostalgia, desire, and fear, all colliding in her chest. She didn’t know what part of it was her, and what part was something imposed by the Chronivac. Was it possible to feel something so strongly… and still not know if it was real?
Isabelle stood in the middle of the room, her fingers trembling slightly as they brushed across her own arm—her soft, smooth, unfamiliar skin. There was a warmth that hadn’t been there before, not just in her body, but in her chest. A humming current of energy, of want. It wasn’t something she could point to, or explain away.
It wasn’t just the physical memory. It wasn’t just a reaction.
It felt real.
The feelings came in waves: a strange ache in her chest, butterflies in her stomach, a longing that felt both new and old at once. A craving not just for touch—but for connection. For presence. For someone who saw her as she was now and loved her completely.
She backed toward the bed and sat down slowly, her breath shaky. The weight of this identity—the woman, the wife, the lover—was sinking into her bones. And the terrifying part? It wasn’t unpleasant.
This wasn’t a spell or mind control. This wasn’t a rewritten script being forced into her head.
This feeling was growing naturally. Like a sprout pushing up through soil. Confused, maybe… but undeniably alive.
Mike stood in the doorway, watching her carefully. He hadn’t moved to close the gap between them again. He was giving her space, just like he said. And yet she could feel his presence like a gravity well, pulling at her.
"I didn’t ask for this," Isabelle whispered, not looking up.
"I know," Mike said quietly. "But you’re not fighting it either, are you?"
She looked up at him, her eyes shining. "I don’t know who I am anymore."
Mike walked forward and knelt in front of her, taking her hands. "You’re the woman I love. You’re the person who’s shared every morning and every night with me for the last twenty years. You’re here now, Isabelle. And maybe that’s all that matters."
Isabelle squeezed his hands—tight. Her breathing slowed as she steadied herself. She was still afraid. But the desire... the ache inside... it wasn’t going away. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want it to.
"I want to feel it," she whispered. "Not because I’m supposed to. Because I choose to."
Mike nodded slowly. “Then let me show you what choosing it really means.”
She gave a small nod in return. Not surrender. Not resignation. Just a quiet beginning.