She floated in silence.
Not falling. Not rising. Just there—in a place where time had no rhythm and space had no edges. She should've felt scared. She didn't.
She remembered the moment before. The way her lungs burned. The way everything went quiet. She'd been working late, patching code, doing what no one else saw. Fixing what they all missed. A bug. Just a small one. But she knew it mattered.
Turned out, it did.
A soft glow appeared in front of her, folding out like dawn. Then a voice—not thunder, not a command. Just calm.
"You did more than anyone knew."
She blinked. "Okay... is this a weird coma dream?"
"No. It's the end of one life. And the start of something new."
The light pulsed gently, and the voice continued.
"That correction you made—the bug in the sequence? It led to a cure. A key. They didn't see it at first. But after you passed, they traced it. Your line of code saved millions."
She felt her breath hitch, even if she had no lungs now. "I didn't think it would do anything."
"You didn't do it for credit. That's why it mattered."
The space in front of her shifted again, forming a floating screen. Sleek. Clear. Like a divine touchscreen.
"This is your gift. You can live again. Anywhere."
Lines of text scrolled across the screen. Universes. Realities.
Marvel. Star Wars. Game of Thrones. The Witcher. Stranger Things. Friends.
She hesitated, scrolling slowly. Her eyes scanned the chaos, the magic, the danger.
Then she stopped.
Friends.
She laughed softly. "Really? Coffee and sarcasm?"
"Laughter. Love. A life with connection. It may seem small... but it is whole."
She stared at the name. Familiar. Safe. Honest.
"I want this one."
The screen pulsed.
"One last thing," the voice said. "You may take pieces of yourself forward. Four, to be exact."
She thought for a second.
"Photographic memory. The full kind. Everything I read, see, hear—I want it to stay."
"Accepted."
"And muscle memory," she added. "I want my body to remember what I knew. How to move, how to learn again."
"Done."
She hesitated now. One last thing. The one that sat deeper than the rest.
"I want to be beautiful."
The voice stayed silent, listening.
"Not for anyone else," she said. "I just… want to carry the version of myself I never got to be. I never felt seen. I want to feel like I belong in the life I live."
There was a pause. Then:
"You will."
"And the last thing?" she asked.
"You'll choose your form—but your path is already written. You'll be born as a twin. Monica Geller's sister. Lost at birth. Raised apart. But not forgotten."
She felt her chest pull tight at that.
"Will I remember everything?"
"Yes. From the first breath."
The light swelled around her.
"Then let's begin," she whispered. "Let me live this one fully."
And the void disappeared.
Warmth. Breath. Hands.
A woman crying softly.
And in her silence, Emma Reyes opened her eyes, not with confusion—but with memory.
This time, she was ready.
---
The world was soft and strange. Too bright. Too loud. But Emma didn't flinch. She recognized the sensations, even in this tiny, new body. The sharp light of the hospital ceiling. The smell of disinfectant. The texture of cotton swaddling. She couldn't move much—but her mind was steady.
So this is how it starts, she thought.
She couldn't speak. Could barely blink. But she could feel. Everything. The weight of arms cradling her. The pulse of someone else's heartbeat near her cheek. The slow, aching rhythm of someone crying and trying not to.
The woman holding her—Colette, her name would be—rocked her gently. The tears weren't panicked. They were deeper. Quiet grief tangled with wonder.
Colette had lost a child.
And now she had Emma.
Not legally. Not officially. But something had shifted in that hospital. A moment of fate. Or something close to it.
Emma didn't know every detail of how it happened yet. She only knew what the voice had told her: you were taken at birth, your path altered, but not erased.
Somewhere else in that same building, a woman named Judy Geller was crying too—but for a different reason. Judy had just been told that only one of her twin daughters survived. That the other didn't make it.
Emma couldn't reach her.
But she heard a faint cry from down the hall—sharp, familiar.
Monica.
It struck something in her chest, even in this small form. A thread pulled tight, straining across distance. She couldn't see her, couldn't move toward her. But she knew. That's my sister.
The connection was still there. Quiet. Waiting.
Colette gently rocked her, whispering in French, words Emma could already understand.
"You'll be safe now."
Emma didn't cry. She didn't need to. Her mind was steady. Her memories sharp. Her future—finally—her own.
And even though the world around her didn't know it yet, she was here to live it right.
---
By the time Emma turned two, she knew she was different. Not special. Not better. Just... aware. Her thoughts were clear. Her body moved with purpose. She remembered everything. She didn't try to explain it—because she didn't need to. This life wasn't about explaining. It was about living.
She never tried to hide how she thought. She didn't dull herself down or act like the other kids. She just was who she was: curious, confident, steady. She spoke early, walked early, read anything she could get her hands on. When people stared, she smiled. When they asked questions, she answered simply. And when they couldn't quite figure her out, she let them wonder.
Colette, her mother, didn't push. She watched with quiet amazement, always a little overwhelmed by how much Emma understood. But she never treated her like a mystery. Just a gift.
They had the kind of relationship that made strangers look twice. The quiet, knowing kind. Like two people who didn't need to say much to understand each other. Their days were filled with normal things—meals, errands, bedtime stories—but always with a softness, a closeness that didn't need to be spoken.
One evening, as they made dinner together, Emma sat at the kitchen table swinging her feet, watching Colette stir sauce on the stove.
"Do you ever get tired of cooking?" she asked.
"Only when I'm already tired," Colette said, smiling.
Emma nodded thoughtfully. "Can I ask you something else?"
"Always."
"Why don't I have a father?"
Colette paused, turning down the heat. "I never met someone who fit. That's all."
Emma considered that. "You didn't want just anyone."
"No," Colette said. "I wanted someone good. But it never happened."
Emma nodded, accepting the answer. "That makes sense."
A few moments passed in quiet, just the sound of simmering sauce.
"Can I stir it?"
Colette handed her the wooden spoon. "Be my guest, chef."
Emma stood on the chair, stirring carefully. "I hope you find someone good someday," she said quietly.
Colette smiled and placed a hand gently on her back. "Me too."
---
Later that year, on a colder night, they sat together on the couch, surrounded by warm blankets and half-folded laundry. Emma brushed her doll's hair without really looking at it.
"Were you happy when you got me?" she asked.
Colette looked up from a pile of towels. "Of course I was."
"Even though I wasn't really yours?"
Colette's face softened. She set the towel down.
"You're mine," she said. "Always. No matter how you came to me."
Emma paused. "Can you tell me how I did?"
Colette sat beside her and pulled her close.
"I was working a late shift," she said. "One I wasn't supposed to take. I was tired. I was grieving."
Emma looked up at her.
"There was a baby," Colette continued. "You. Left alone in the nursery. No chart. No name. Just small and silent. They said you didn't survive. But I saw you breathe. Just once."
Emma stayed very still.
"They were going to take you away. I couldn't let them. So I didn't."
"You took me?"
"I saved you. And I never looked back."
Emma leaned her head against Colette's shoulder. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For seeing me. For staying."
Colette kissed the top of her head and held her tighter.
"Always."
---