WHAT LIES WITHIN. ( THE SPECIAL ONE )

CHAPTER THREE 3

The Echoes We Inherit.

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Emilia pushed open the attic door, dust trailing from the edges like forgotten memories being disturbed. The air was stale and still, like time had sealed this space off from the world below. She hesitated on the top step, hand gripping the splintered wooden frame. She hadn’t come up here in years — not since she was a little girl, looking for Christmas decorations and tripping over boxes labeled Wilfred’s things.

Now, her fingers trembled for a different reason.

She didn’t know what had pulled her here. Only that last night’s conversation with Franklin had left a c***k in her wall — and something inside whispered, Look where they told you not to. Search what they wanted buried.

The first box she opened contained old baby clothes. A blanket with her initials. A picture of her mother, pregnant and smiling, standing beside a man with warm brown eyes and wind-tousled hair. Her father. She barely remembered his face. The photo had always seemed like a lie. A promise of something she never got to experience.

She set it aside and reached for the box underneath. This one was taped twice. Her mother’s handwriting scrawled across it: Do not open. Private.

Her heart skipped.

Private?

What could be so private after all these years?

With shaking hands, she peeled the tape away. Inside, beneath layers of old envelopes and rusted paperclips, she found a black leather-bound journal — her father’s name etched into the corner in faded gold ink.

Wilfred R. Wilson.

She opened the journal slowly. The first page was filled with messy handwriting and coffee stains. Sketches of molecules. DNA patterns. Strings of scientific jargon she couldn’t understand. But as she flipped further, the language changed.

Subject 04B shows increasingly unstable ability to manipulate kinetic energy — female, approximately 6 years old. Behavior unpredictable when emotionally triggered. Suggest complete erasure of file.

She froze.

Her breath caught.

Six years old?

She turned the page again — hands trembling harder now.

Emilia Wilson — noted as direct heir of anomaly strain. Subject unstable. Repeating Wilfred’s legacy? Time will tell.

She dropped the journal like it had burned her.

What the hell was this?

Who wrote it? And why was her name in a file that sounded like a lab report?

Was this… was this what Franklin meant?

Was this why he was sent to find her?

Suddenly the attic felt smaller. The shadows darker. Every box felt like it might hold another piece of herself she didn’t want to see.

She stumbled backward, nearly tripping down the attic stairs, journal clutched tight against her chest. Her mind raced with questions, but only one echoed the loudest.

What did Mom know?

---

Downstairs, the kitchen light was on. Her mother stood at the sink, washing the same plate over and over, lost in thought. Emilia didn’t speak right away. She watched her, this woman who had become more stranger than mother over the years.

Then, quietly — almost too softly to hear — Emilia said, “Why didn’t you tell me about Dad’s research?”

Her mother froze.

The sponge slipped from her hand and hit the sink with a dull splash.

“What?” she asked, voice flat, too calm.

Emilia stepped closer. “I found his journal. In the attic. And a file with my name in it.”

For a moment, silence.

Then her mother turned, face pale and tight. “You weren’t supposed to go up there.”

“Why?” Emilia demanded. “Because you knew I’d find the truth?”

Her mother didn’t answer.

“Tell me what he was working on. Tell me why people are watching me. Why Franklin knew me before I knew him. Why I can’t even breathe without feeling like my body’s going to explode.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

Her mother looked at her like she wanted to lie. Like the truth was too sharp to say out loud. But Emilia stepped forward, shaking now, anger and fear curling under her skin like fire about to break loose.

“I’m done being quiet. I’m done pretending I’m okay. I need answers, or I swear to God, Mom, I’ll burn this whole house down.”

And she meant it.

The lights flickered.

The walls groaned.

And her mother finally whispered the words Emilia had waited sixteen years to hear:

“Because your father didn’t die in a car accident. He was killed. And you… you’re what they were after all along.”

The room went silent. No television hum. No ticking clock. Even the wind outside seemed to pause.

Her mother’s words echoed like they’d been waiting years to be spoken.

Killed.

Not gone. Not lost. Not in some tragic accident like she’d always been told.

Murdered.

By people who were after her.

Emilia’s breath hitched. “What did you just say?”

Her mother leaned against the counter like the truth itself weighed her down. Her eyes were wet now, but the tears didn’t fall. “He didn’t just die, Emilia. He was hunted. Because of what he created.”

“Me?” she whispered.

Her mother nodded.

Emilia stumbled back like she’d been struck. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why lie for all these years?”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“No,” Emilia said through clenched teeth. “You were trying to protect yourself from the truth.”

Her mother’s voice cracked. “You don’t understand what they’re capable of.”

“Then help me understand!” Emilia shouted, and the pendant on her neck glowed for the first time — faint, but unmistakable. The same silver shimmer that now danced across her palms.

Her mother looked at it with a mixture of grief and fear. “Wilfred created something the world wasn’t ready for. He thought he was helping. He thought… he could give humanity a way to defend itself.”

“Defend itself from what?”

“From itself,” her mother whispered. “He wanted to build a safeguard. Powers passed genetically, meant to evolve. You were his miracle.”

“But?”

“But they wanted a weapon.”

Emilia’s stomach twisted.

“They?” she asked. “The same people who sent Franklin?”

Her mother’s eyes widened. “You’ve spoken to one of them?”

“I think I like him,” Emilia said coldly. “Doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”

Her mother looked like she might collapse.

“I didn’t know who he was,” Emilia added. “I just knew something about him felt… different. Familiar.”

“Because he was one of the first.”

Emilia blinked. “One of the what?”

Her mother wiped her hands on a towel she didn’t realize she was still holding. “Franklin wasn’t just sent. He’s part of your father’s research. His DNA was altered—merged—with some of Wilfred’s theories. I didn’t know they’d kept him alive…”

Her voice faded.

“And you never thought to tell me any of this?”

“I tried,” her mom said. “So many times. But every time I looked at you, I saw him. I saw what they stole from us.”

Emilia pressed a hand to her forehead. Her mind was spinning, her heart thudding too fast, too loud.

“Everything’s changing,” she muttered.

“Yes,” her mother said. “And it’s going to get worse.”

Emilia turned, pacing. “What else haven’t you told me? What else is buried in this house?”

“Wilfred left behind more than just that journal,” her mother said carefully. “There’s a drive. A hidden one. Locked in the back of his old briefcase in the basement.”

Of course. Another secret. Another hidden room. Another locked box.

Emilia’s jaw tightened. “Give me the key.”

Her mother hesitated. “You don’t have to do this tonight—”

“Give me the key,” she repeated, and the light above them sparked again.

Her mother reached into the cabinet drawer and pulled out a small, silver key attached to a faded leather tag.

Emilia snatched it, turned, and walked away without another word.

She didn’t care how late it was. She didn’t care how much her hands trembled.

If there was something down there—anything—that could explain why she had powers, why she was being watched, why Franklin was in her school like a walking ghost from a past she never knew she had…

She was going to find it.

The basement door groaned open like it hadn’t been touched in years. The cold air rushed up the stairs as Emilia descended one creaking step at a time, the key gripped tight in her fist like a lifeline.

The smell hit her first — dust, mildew, old secrets.

Light flickered from the bulb overhead, casting shadows across walls lined with shelves, storage crates, and what looked like untouched memories. Her father’s things were everywhere. Labeled. Organized. Preserved like part of her mother still hoped he’d come back and need them.

She moved toward the far wall, where a tall metal cabinet stood wedged behind an old treadmill and a canvas-draped armchair. She yanked open the doors.

There it was.

A black leather briefcase, tucked on the bottom shelf like a forgotten treasure

She dropped to her knees and pulled the briefcase out with both hands. It was heavier than she expected. Covered in a thin layer of dust, the black leather was cracked with age, but the silver clasp still gleamed like it had just been polished. The initials W.R.W. were engraved near the top.

Her father’s.

She stared at it for a moment — as if it might vanish if she touched it. As if opening it meant crossing a line she could never return from.

Then she reached for the key.

The lock clicked open with a clean snap that echoed far too loudly in the silence.

Inside, everything was carefully arranged. Files, folders, maps… thick stacks of notes bound by string. Emilia reached in and pulled out a manila envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL in all caps. Underneath it, wrapped in velvet cloth, was a flash drive. Silver. Sleek. Cold to the touch.

She held it in her palm, watching the blue light at its base pulse once — like a heartbeat.

Her chest tightened.

She knew this was it.

She knew something inside would change everything.

The moment she stepped into her room again, the world felt different. More fragile. More real. Her hands trembled as she sat down at her desk, slipping the flash drive into her laptop.

The screen blinked once.

Then again.

A folder popped up:

PROJECT: VESSEL

Her pulse throbbed in her throat.

She double-clicked.

Documents filled the screen in rows. Each file labeled meticulously — dates, subject codes, research logs. And among them… her name.

Over and over again.

SUBJECT: EMILIA WILSON

MATCH: 100% GENETIC COMPATIBILITY

BEHAVIOR: VOLATILE. PHASE II INITIATED. MONITOR CLOSELY.

She scrolled faster, heart pounding louder with every file.

One read:

“Inheritance confirmed. Dual strand activation successful. Powers progressing ahead of schedule. Emotional regulation: unstable.”

She froze.

That line.

They were studying her. Watching her. Measuring the very parts of herself she’d been hiding in fear.

And they knew.

They knew everything.

At the bottom of the folder, a video file.

Her finger hovered over it, shaking.

She clicked.

The screen crackled to life. The image was slightly grainy, flickering with static — then sharpened into focus.

Her breath caught.

It was her father.

He looked tired. The bags under his eyes were deep, his lab coat wrinkled and stained. But his presence filled the screen — tall, commanding, brilliant. The same warm eyes she saw in the photo. The same soft curls that framed her own face in the mirror.

He looked straight into the camera.

“If you’re watching this,” he began, voice low and steady, “then they’ve found you. And I’m so sorry.”

Emilia covered her mouth, tears springing to her eyes.

“I wanted to protect you. God, I tried. I made plans. I built failsafes. But some storms… some storms can’t be outrun.”

His hand moved to a small device on the table beside him. “Everything in this drive… it’s for you. The research, the data, the truth. Not just about what you are… but why.”

Emilia sat frozen, heart in her throat.

Her father leaned closer. “You weren’t an accident, Emilia. You were a choice. A hope. You are everything I dreamed the world could become. But dreams have enemies.”

His voice broke, just slightly. “If they’ve gotten to you… I need you to remember something. Don’t trust what they say. Not even me. Find your own truth. Be your own storm.”

The screen flickered once more.

Then went dark.

Emilia didn’t move.

She couldn’t.

Tears slipped silently down her cheeks as the final echo of his voice rang in her ears.

Be your own storm.

She looked down at her hands — faint silver flickers dancing just beneath the surface of her skin. Her fingers tingled. Her entire body felt electric.

Everything she thought she knew was gone.

Her father hadn’t abandoned her. He’d died trying to protect her.

And now… it was her turn to fight.