Emma's eyes fluttered open to the now-familiar green walls and cedar-scented air, her heart already racing from the weight of Lily's medical form and the sting of her daughter's accusation: "You had no right." The memory of Ethan's desperate love for Sophie and the police station's cold sterility clung to her, but the room grounded her in Noah's reality. David slept beside her, his breathing steady, a constant in this fractured world. She slipped out of bed, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet, and tiptoed down the hall to Noah's room, driven by an urge to connect, to hold onto something real.
Noah was awake, sitting by his telescope, the early morning light catching the lenses of his glasses. His room was a galaxy of books and star charts, his notebook open to a page of intricate sketches—constellations and that looping symbol, the one she'd seen on Lily's note and Sophie's notebook. Emma's breath caught, but she pushed the unease aside, focusing on the boy who felt both hers and not hers.
"Good morning, Noah," she said softly, kneeling beside him. "Up early again?"
He glanced at her, his gray eyes guarded but curious. "The stars are clearer at dawn," he said, his voice quiet, almost reverent. He adjusted the telescope, his movements precise, as if the universe demanded his full attention.
Emma smiled, her heart aching with a tenderness she couldn't explain. "Can you show me something?" she asked, gesturing to the telescope. "Something special."
Noah hesitated, then nodded, scooting over to make room. "Okay," he said, adjusting the lens. "That's Orion. See the three stars in a line? That's his belt." His voice warmed slightly, and for a moment, he was just a boy sharing his world.
Emma peered through the telescope, the stars sharp and bright against the fading night. "It's beautiful," she said, her voice catching. She wanted to ask about the symbol, about his cryptic words—"You'll see them in Paris"—but his rare openness stopped her. She couldn't risk pushing him away, not like Lily, not like Ethan.
They sat in silence, the telescope between them, until Noah spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "The stars are always there, even when you can't see them. Like… like people you lose." He looked at her, his eyes searching, as if testing her.
Emma's chest tightened, a flood of images—Ethan's handcuffs, Lily's bruises, Sophie's pale face—rushing through her. "Who did you lose, Noah?" she asked, her voice gentle but urgent.
He looked away, his fingers tracing the looping symbol in his notebook. "No one," he said, too quickly. "It's just… something I read."
Emma didn't believe him, but before she could press, David's voice called from the hallway. "Emma? Noah? Breakfast's ready." His tone was warm, but she caught the undercurrent of worry, the same she'd heard in Ethan's and Lily's realities.
She stood, her resolve wavering. "Noah, I'll be right back, okay?" He didn't respond, his attention back on his telescope. In the kitchen, David was setting out plates, the smell of coffee grounding her. She sat, her hands trembling, and faced him.
"David, we need to talk," she said, her voice low, urgent. "I keep seeing them—Ethan, Lily, now Noah. They're all connected, and I don't know why. It's like I'm living three lives, and I'm losing them all."
David's face fell, his hands pausing on a coffee mug. "Emma, you're doing it again," he said, his voice soft but strained. "There's only Noah. No Ethan, no Lily. You've been… slipping, lately. Talking about kids who aren't here. It's scaring Noah, and it's scaring me."
Emma's throat tightened, his words a mirror of the ones he'd spoken in Lily's reality. "No," she said, shaking her head. "They're real. I can feel them, David. Ethan's in trouble with the police. Lily's been sick, fighting at school. And Noah—he's so alone, but he knows something. He said I'd see them in Paris."
David's eyes widened, a flicker of fear crossing his face. "Paris?" he repeated, his voice sharp. "Emma, you're not making sense. We're not going to Paris. You need to focus on Noah, on us."
She stood, her chair scraping against the floor. "I am focused," she said, her voice rising. "I'm trying to hold onto them, to understand why I'm seeing them. Why does it feel like I'm failing them all?"
David reached for her, but she pulled back, her heart racing. "Emma, please," he said, his voice breaking. "You're not failing anyone. You're just… not well."
The words hit like a blow, and she stumbled back, her mind spinning. Was she imagining them? Ethan's anger, Lily's fear, Noah's stars—were they just fragments of a broken mind? She turned to leave, needing air, but paused at the sight of a photo on the kitchen counter. It was her and Noah, his small hand in hers, standing in a park. But she looked younger, too young, her hair longer, her smile brighter. The photo felt wrong, like a memory from someone else's life.
She picked it up, her fingers trembling. "David, when was this taken?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
He glanced at the photo, his expression tightening. "A few years ago," he said, too quickly. "You were happy then."
Emma stared at the image, her heart pounding. Noah's face, so like Ethan's, so like