I come back to myself slowly.
There is no dream.
No transition.
Just the sensation of a body.
The weight of the air on my skin.
The cold beneath my back.
I open my eyes.
The world is there.
And I understand that I am awake.
⸻
The hideout is silent.
An old storage module, converted into a temporary refuge. The walls still bear traces of erased numbers. The floor is cold. Stable. Sufficient.
Elias does not speak much.
He cleans his weapons. He checks the exits. He reinforces a door that was never meant to be closed. Every movement is precise, methodical. As if he were trying to restore order to something slipping beyond his grasp.
I watch him.
I do not yet know what it means to look at someone, but I understand that I do it often.
He avoids my gaze.
Not out of rejection.
Out of effort.
I sit up slowly. The body is still learning. It has a muscle memory that does not belong to me, yet it guides me. My fingers close gently around a cracked pot. Inside, a plant barely survives. The edges of its leaves are dry. The soil is poor.
I touch the earth.
Something inside me settles.
I do not know why growth feels… right to me.
Why repairing what can still live feels necessary.
I do not need to have been taught this.
Elias stops.
He watches me in turn, without realizing it.
His eyes linger on my movements. On the way I straighten a stem. On the unnecessary patience I give it. On the gentleness that serves no tactical purpose.
I sense his unease before he speaks.
"You do that like her," he says at last.
His voice is low. Not accusing. Tired.
I lift my head.
"Like who?"
He does not answer right away.
"Tiana," he says.
He already knows it is not her.
The name crosses the room like a current of air. It is not painful. It is present. Charged.
I lower my eyes to the plant.
"I am not her," I say calmly.
He nods. Too quickly.
"I know."
But he does not move.
I stand. I step closer. Each movement is measured. I discover that proximity alters my internal signals. Heart rate accelerating. Breathing becoming less regular.
I do not yet understand what it means.
I stop a few centimeters from him.
He finally looks at me—truly looks.
His eyes trace my face as if trying not to search. He sees what resembles her. The features. The expressions. The small pauses between movements. The gentle silences.
And then he sees what does not match.
My eyes.
Green. Deep. Attentive.
His fill with something he has been fighting for far too long.
"It's unfair," he murmurs.
"What is?"
"That you look so much like her… without being her."
I think.
"Does it hurt?"
He hesitates.
"Yes."
"Does it help too?"
The silence stretches.
Then he closes his eyes.
When he opens them, something has changed.
Not a heroic resolve.
A fragile acceptance.
"I can't give you back," he says.
"Not to them.
Not like this."
He takes a deep breath.
"I don't know yet what you are.
I only know that you are here.
And that if I let you go… I lose something alive. Again."
He takes a step toward me.
Not to possess me.
Not to replace her.
To stay.
He places his hand on my shoulder. It is warm. Human. Trembling.
"I'm staying with you," he says simply.
It is not a promise of love.
It is more dangerous than that.
It is a choice.
I do not smile.
I do not cry.
But something inside me takes root.
I understand an essential truth:
I was not born to be Tiana.
I was born after her.
And for the first time since I exist…
I know who I am.