The morning broke pale and clean, winter light spilling across the atrium floor.
"Good morning, Amy."
Orrin's voice was smooth as ever, carrying that unshakable blend of courtesy and subtle curiosity. The AI's holographic form shimmered faintly beside the stairs, dressed in soft tones today, as if matching the light.
"You seem… focused," he observed.
Amy stepped down from the last stair, hair tied back, sleeves already rolled. "We have a guest this afternoon. I want everything in place before then."
Orrin inclined his head. "Understood. Shall I prepare the living room and atrium for receiving?"
"Yes. And the dining area — set for two."
"Of course." His outline flickered slightly, syncing with the house systems. "May I also suggest freshening the greenhouse floral arrangements? The subtle scent of basil pairs well with lemon-based dishes."
Amy paused, then allowed the smallest nod. "…Do it."
As Orrin moved off, the house stirred around her — soft lights shifting warmer, quiet air systems cycling fresh scents, a faint thread of music curling into the hall.
Amy stepped into the kitchen. The containers she'd prepared last night were waiting, neatly stacked, as if anticipating her hands.
She breathed in, steady.
By the time Sara arrived, this place would feel like it was meant for her.
And Amy didn't even try to tell herself otherwise.
…
Breakfast was quick — just enough to take the edge off her hunger before the real work began. Amy set the empty plate in the sink, rolled her sleeves higher, and turned to the counter where last night's prep waited in orderly containers.
The kitchen was hers now. The low hum of the induction range, the faint scent of fresh herbs from the greenhouse arrangements Orrin had placed nearby, the rhythmic tap of her knife — it all blended into a quiet tempo.
She started with the chicken, marinating it in lemon, rosemary, and cracked pepper. The vegetables followed — carrots, zucchini, cherry tomatoes — tossed lightly in olive oil and slid into the oven for a slow roast. Orrin adjusted the lights automatically, warming the tones to bring out the color of the food.
The pasta came last, simmering gently while she whisked together a bright sauce that balanced sharp citrus with a subtle butter finish. She worked without rushing, each movement deliberate, precise.
When she plated the roasted vegetables for cooling, a soft chime cut through the kitchen.
[System Notice: Skill Acquired – Cooking]
Amy froze mid-reach.
"…What?"
The text hovered in her vision, crisp and unmistakable.
That wasn't possible. Skills didn't unlock until after the apocalypse — she'd confirmed that a hundred times over in the previous timeline. No one gained anything early. Not even her.
Yet the notification pulsed calmly, as if it had always been waiting for this moment.
[Cooking – Passive
Your experience in preparing meals has refined into a skill. Enhances precision, efficiency, and flavor control.]
She stared for a beat longer, brows drawing together. A low, unsettled hum threaded through her thoughts.
If the system was granting skills now, what else might be different this time?
Amy shook her head. Not now.
The notification faded at her dismissal, leaving only the quiet kitchen and the smell of lemon and herbs.
She finished the plating — chicken seared to a delicate gold, pasta glistening with sauce, vegetables resting in neat arcs. Everything cooled briefly before she sealed it in transport-safe containers, carefully arranging them in the Velvet Specter's built-in refrigeration unit.
Back upstairs, Amy changed into something simple but deliberate — fitted charcoal trousers, a deep blue top that caught the light without trying, and a silver pendant resting lightly at her collarbone. Her hair she left loose, brushed until it fell in smooth lines over her shoulders.
Orrin met her at the garage door. "Shall I inform the household systems to maintain optimal temperature and security in your absence?"
"Yes. And make sure nothing touches the dining setup," she replied, already sliding into the driver's seat.
The Velvet Specter stirred to life under her hands, its interior lighting soft and cool, the engine purring like it knew the importance of the day. The route to Sara's estate was quiet, the winter sunlight fractured by the branches of bare-limbed trees along the road.
When the Specter glided to a stop before the Veylan residence, its chrome frame reflecting the pale sky, Amy sat for a moment, eyes on the front steps.
She exhaled, slow.
Today wasn't about fortresses or timelines.
It was about her.
Amy opened the door and stepped out into the cold air, the faint scent of rosemary still clinging to her hands.
Sara was waiting just beyond that door.