Chapter Fourty
558 Words
Xavier’s POV
Sleep didn’t come easy.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that file — Project Mnemosyne — glowing on the screen like it was alive.
Even now, sitting at my desk with the flash drive in my hand, I couldn’t shake the feeling that opening it again might change everything.
I plugged it into my laptop.
The folder opened with a soft click.
Inside, there were dozens of encrypted documents — all labeled with codenames and years. But one caught my attention: Eden_Log_Alpha.
My heart thudded. Eden.
That name had come up before — the same project my father had whispered about during late-night phone calls. Was Mnemosyne part of Eden? Or worse… was it what Eden had become?
I clicked it open.
The screen blinked once, and then a wall of text appeared — reports, patient IDs, experiment data. At the top, a single line stood out:
> Subject 12-A: Neural reconstruction successful. Memory rewrite initiated.
Memory rewrite.
I froze. The air in the room felt heavy, like the walls were closing in.
Was my father experimenting on people’s memories?
Then I scrolled further down and stopped cold.
> Notes: Subject’s behavioral pattern stabilizing. Identity integration complete. Subject relocated — civilian environment test begins.
Attached was a small file: Image_12A.jpg
I clicked it.
A photo loaded slowly — pixel by pixel.
When it finally cleared, my heart almost stopped.
It was a picture of a young girl.
Dark hair. Familiar eyes.
Mila.
My chest tightened. I stared at the image, disbelief burning behind my ribs.
No. It couldn’t be her. It didn’t make sense. The file date was years old — before she even transferred schools.
But the resemblance was undeniable.
And right beneath the image, a timestamp: “Eden relocation – Phase 2 begins.”
I yanked the flash drive out like it was burning me.
What the hell was my father hiding?
What was Mila’s father hiding?
*****
Mila’s POV
The unknown number hadn’t texted again.
But that single message — You shouldn’t trust anyone in that house — wouldn’t leave my head.
Especially now.
Dad was on the phone in the study again. He’d been whispering for nearly an hour, and every time I walked by, he’d stop mid-sentence. When I asked what was wrong, he said “work stuff.”
But I wasn’t buying it anymore.
Something was off. I could feel it in my bones.
And Xavier… he hadn’t messaged me all day.
No snarky comments. No jokes. Nothing. It wasn’t like him to stay quiet. Not unless he’d found something.
My fingers hovered over my phone screen. I typed his name.
Are you okay?
Then deleted it.
Typed again.
We need to talk.
Before I could send it, my phone buzzed again — but this time it wasn’t the unknown number.
It was a video.
No message. Just a single video file titled: "Truth."
I hesitated, then pressed play.
The footage was grainy — a security camera recording. Two men in lab coats stood near a hospital bed.
On the bed was a girl, no older than ten, hooked up to wires. Her eyes fluttered as one of the men whispered,
“Begin the rewrite.”
Then, one of the men turned toward the camera.
Even through the low quality, I recognized him instantly.
It was my father.
- Writer
