Rusty stared at the screen, stunned. "What's happening?"
The memory had shattered. After countless timeline jumps, this was new—broken light, chaotic static. Johnny Wyles's past refused to load.
Dr. Rosa Lee spoke up, calm as ever. "Something's blocking his memory. It's too damaged to form clear images."
Rusty blinked. "The machine's busted?"
"No," Rosa said. "His childhood memories are just too faint. But it's fine—they're not critical. Our job is to plant the moon wish, per the contract."
Chat exploded: "What?!" "Plant it anyway?" "Zoey, you genius!" "This is twisted!" "Gus is pulling strings again!"
Rusty frowned. "Hold up. This feels wrong." The game had unraveled so much—River's paper rabbits, the platypus plushie, the lighthouse named Anya, Johnny's vague moon wish. Yet nothing explained why Johnny, at seventy, wanted to go to the moon. "He never cared about space," Rusty said. "Why's this his dying wish?"
Chat agreed: "This is odd!" "Why the moon?" "Those rabbits—what do they mean?" "The platypus is sus!" "Anya's the lighthouse, but why's it matter?" "River spent her life folding paper—what's she saying?"
Rusty shook his head. The answers were close, but Rosa's orders, straight from WindyPeak LifeWorks' Executive VP Sam Carter, were clear: don't dig for reasons, just implant the moon wish in young Johnny to fulfill the contract. "Follow the rules, get paid, move on," Rosa said.
Chat raged: "Gus, you're ruthless!" "Zoey's scheming again!" "This is cold!" "Just do the job? Nah, Rusty, dig deeper!"
Rusty sighed. Rosa outranked him. He had to comply. They started planting the moon idea in Johnny's childhood. An astronomy class in elementary school. Space posters in his favorite movie theater. Aerospace movies swapped in. Even a high school NASA recruiter. Every trick to spark a lifelong astronaut dream.
But it failed. Johnny's life didn't budge. No interest in space, no starry-eyed dreams. "Going to the moon? He doesn't care!" Rusty groaned. Chat echoed: "This is nuts!" "Johnny's immune to space!" "Zoey's plot is wild!" "What's wrong with this guy?"
Rusty leaned back, exasperated. "How does someone who ignores space his whole life suddenly want the moon on his deathbed? This makes no sense!"
Chat went wild: "Total paradox!" "Zoey's messing with us!" "The truth's gotta be in that broken memory!" "I'm losing it!" "Tell us, Zoey, please!"
Then, a red flash. A message from WindyPeak LifeWorks: "Bad news, doctors. Johnny's fading fast. Speed it up."
Rusty froze. "No way." The game had him hooked, and now Johnny was slipping away. "If we don't solve this, Johnny's gone, and I'll lose sleep forever."
Chat urged: "Hurry, Rusty!" "Race the clock!" "Find the truth!"
With the moon implant failing, Rusty pivoted. "Rosa, we need to know why it's not sticking." He contacted WindyPeak LifeWorks' head office, requesting a fix for the memory glitch. After a tense wait, they sent core code for memory restructuring. It could unlock Johnny's deepest memories—if they found a trigger item matching the "void chaos" scent.
Rusty's eyes lit up. "The squirrel! That squashed squirrel from the car crash!" Chat roared: "The squirrel?!" "Gross but genius!" "Zoey's crazy!"
A white flash. Children's laughter filled the air. They'd jumped to Johnny's childhood, age six or seven. Little Johnny kicked a soccer ball, chasing it across a playground. Rusty and Rosa followed, watching him dart past.
But danger loomed. Johnny chased the ball behind a reversing car—his mother's. She didn't see him. Rusty's heart sank. "No—!"
BANG! A sickening thud. Johnny's mother screamed, leaping from the car. She crouched over a bloodied boy, shouting for help. Rusty and Rosa stared, frozen.
Chat gasped: "Oh no!" "Is that Johnny?!" "This is heavy!"
Then, another scream—a child's. Rusty turned. A second boy ran up, terrified. The mother cried, "Joey!" The injured boy was Joey, not Johnny.
Rusty's jaw dropped. "Joey? Johnny's twin?!" Chat erupted: "Twin brother?!" "This is insane!" "Zoey's dropping bombs!"
The wedding flashed in Rusty's mind. Johnny's mother had called him "Joey" then, saying it was his grandfather's nickname. But now it was clear: Joey was Johnny's twin, killed in a tragic accident. To shield Johnny from the trauma, his mother fed him beta-blockers, wiping the memory.
Rusty's voice shook. "That's why his childhood's blocked. The accident messed him up." Chat typed: "This is heartbreaking!" "Beta-blockers erased Joey!" "Zoey's a mastermind!"
Time jumped forward, months before the accident. The playground buzzed with life. Mrs. Wyles held Joey's hand; Joey held Johnny's. The twins had just played whack-a-mole. Joey won a toy car, Johnny got a dud prize.
"It's okay, Johnny," Joey said, smiling. "I'll give you my car later. Next year, I'll win you a better one!"
Johnny pouted. "Fine."
The family rested by some tables. Johnny, still sulky, said he wanted to play on the swings and wandered to the park's back hill, kicking stones. Rusty followed, sensing a breakthrough.
Night fell. Stars blanketed the sky, the moon glowing like a beacon. Johnny sat on a tree stump, gazing up, lost in thought. Insects chirped softly.
Footsteps crunched. A girl with orange-red hair in a blue dress stepped into view—River, young and quiet, her face calm but distant. Rusty's heart skipped. "That's River! They met as kids!"
Chat exploded: "Childhood meeting?!" "This is huge!" "They didn't meet in high school?!" "Zoey's rewriting everything!"
Johnny turned, spotting River. She started to walk away, but he called out, "Hey, wait! I'm Johnny. What's your name?"
River paused. "You're in my spot."
"Oh, sorry!" Johnny said, flustered. "I didn't mean to take it. Wanna sit here with me?"
River hesitated, then sat beside him on the stump. They looked up at the stars, heads tilted, two kids under a vast sky.
"There's so many lights up there," Johnny said.
River nodded. "Yeah."
"You come here a lot?" he asked.
"Only at Easter," she said. "I don't like crowds."
"Me neither," Johnny said. "You didn't tell me your name."
River looked shy. "It's… silly. Kids at school laugh at it."
Johnny shrugged. "Can't be worse than 'Johnny.' It's so plain."
"There's nothing wrong with plain," River said. "I wish I had a normal name, just once. Like the stars—they all look alike, but they're all beautiful."
Chat sighed: "That's so sweet." "River's already deep." "She knows she's different."
River spoke softly. "Ever try… connecting the stars to make a rabbit?"
Johnny blinked. "Like a constellation? Never thought of a rabbit."
"Wanna try?" River asked.
"Sure!" Johnny grinned, waving a fist. "Let's race. Who finds it first? Three, two, one!"
"I got it," River said instantly.
"What?!" Johnny laughed. "No way! Where?"
"There," River said, pointing at the sky.
Johnny followed her gaze, then gasped. "I see it! Right there!" He pointed excitedly. "See that rabbit? Tell me about it."
River smiled, bright as the moon. "Its ears and head."
"And its legs!" Johnny added. "Two of 'em!"
"And?"
"Its head's round, ears are long!"
"Exactly! And what else?"
"The moon!" Johnny said, thrilled. "It's the rabbit's round belly!"
Rusty's eyes widened. A chill ran through him. "That's it," he whispered. Chat lost it: "The rabbit constellation!" "That's the paper rabbit!" "River's been chasing this forever!" "Zoey, you're killing me!"
The yellow-and-blue paper rabbit—River's lifelong obsession—wasn't just origami. It was their childhood moment, a constellation they found together, a memory only theirs. River, limited by autism, couldn't explain it clearly. She folded rabbits, asked Johnny about them, hoping he'd remember. But the beta-blockers stole that memory from him.
For half her life, River tried to bring it back. Johnny answered, never getting it right, their connection a parallel line that never met. A lifetime of love, filled with regret.
Rusty's voice cracked. "She just wanted him to remember." Chat typed: "I'm crying!" "This is too much!" "Zoey's a genius!" "The moon's their rabbit!"
The moon wish wasn't about space. It was River—their shared moment under the stars, lost to trauma, but alive in her heart.