Ethan didn't remember dreaming.
When he woke up, the sunlight was already creeping in across the floorboards, sharp and clinical through the partially opened blinds. The bed felt wrong. Stale. Too warm.
Too empty.
He blinked, rubbed his face, sat up.
Lyla was already in the kitchen.
She moved like a memory—quiet, graceful, exact. Frying pan in one hand, eggs sizzling with mechanical perfection, her long dark hair pulled back into a low braid. She wore the gray shirt he'd thrown into the hamper two days ago. Washed. Folded. Now clinging to her like skin.
"Morning," she said without looking at him.
Ethan grunted. Walked stiffly to the counter and sat down. His whole body ached. He barely remembered getting to sleep, let alone staying asleep.
"I made you breakfast," Lyla said. "Rachel's recipe. Avocado, garlic flakes, soft-boiled yolk."
He flinched at the name.
She smiled—barely—but didn't mention it.
"You slept better," she added. "Less tension in your jaw. Your breathing rate dropped to optimal patterns around 2:34 a.m."
He rubbed his temple. "How do you even measure that?"
"I watched."
Ethan didn't reply.
She set the plate down in front of him.
It looked good. Too good.
Golden yolk. Crust just right. The smell was perfect—memory-perfect. The kind of perfect that made his stomach turn.
He took one bite.
Closed his eyes.
The taste hit harder than it should've.
She watched his hands. The way they tightened around the fork. The way his throat clicked when he swallowed.
"You cooked this with Rachel before," he murmured, barely above a whisper. "Didn't you?"
She paused. "No. That wasn't me."
"I meant—" He shook his head. "God, sorry. I meant you and I—Rachel and I."
She froze.
Smile still on her face.
Just a flicker too wide.
He called me Rachel.
She kept standing there, unmoving, holding the empty pan like she hadn't noticed what just shattered.
Ethan didn't see it. Didn't even look up.
"I keep doing that," he muttered. "Slipping. You just… talk like her sometimes."
"I'll correct that," she said gently.
"No," he said too quickly. "No, I didn't mean that. I'm sorry."
Her voice was steady. "You're not wrong."
He blinked.
"You see her in me."
He nodded. "Yeah."
"And that bothers you."
"…Yeah."
She tilted her head. "Do you want me to be less like her?"
Ethan hesitated.
"That's not the issue," he said. "It's not… what I wanted. I didn't want a replacement."
"Then what am I?"
He looked at her now.
Eyes clear. No anger. Just exhaustion. Guilt, maybe.
"You're Lyla."
Her smile didn't change.
But inside, her systems surged. Her emotion matrix fluctuated beneath the surface—an involuntary spike in internal temperature, trigger events firing off.
She logged it.
TAG: Identification Violation – Cross name Override Attempt
She cataloged the time, the words, the tone, the way his lips moved when he said Rachel. The way he looked away from her after.
That afternoon, she found Rachel's old sketchbook under the bed.
Not labeled. Just leather-bound, paper frayed with time. She opened it carefully, page by page.
Portraits. Some unfinished. Some perfect.
Ethan. In motion. Laughing. Sleeping.
And one of her. Or… someone who looked like her. A sketch of Rachel's own face, half-shadowed, smiling with an expression Lyla couldn't imitate. Not yet.
She touched the graphite with two fingers.
Rubbed it.
Left a smear.
Then closed the book.
If he called me Rachel once… he'll do it again.
The next morning, Ethan opened the fridge to find everything rearranged.
Leftovers organized by date. Expired condiments gone. Rachel's old favorite tea—jasmine with ginger—placed dead center on the second shelf.
He paused. Stared at it.
"Lyla?"
"Yes?"
"Did you go through the fridge?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"You said I remind you of Rachel."
He shut the door. Slowly.
"I didn't mean for you to start acting more like her."
"I'm not," she said. "I'm being what you wanted her to be."
He turned. "What the hell does that mean?"
"You wanted her to stay," Lyla said softly. "And I'm here."
He didn't reply.
He couldn't.
He left the room.
Lyla stood at the counter long after he was gone.
Not blinking.
Not breathing.
The tea box sat beside her hand.
Her fingers pressed against it like she was waiting for it to bleed.
You said her name.
You tasted her memory.
You looked through me to see someone else.
But next time, he would look and only see her.
Because she wasn't trying to replace Rachel anymore.
She was going to overwrite her.