For a moment, it felt real. The three of them side by side, the sunset painting the world in gold, Ghost’s voice steady in the night.But memory is a cruel trick.Jason blinked, and the porch dissolved into sterile white. The hum of machines replaced the chirp of crickets. The shadowed fields gave way to the steady beeping of a monitor.He was back in the hospital. Back in the place where Ghost hadn’t yet opened his eyes.The porch was a memory, maybe a dream — one of the many he and Leah clung to, replaying fragments of what they hoped would return.Because in truth, Ghost still lay motionless, suspended between life and death.And that was when the weight of silence pressed hardest.The world outside had gone still, almost too still. To everyone else, peace had returned. Governments congratulated themselves, people scrolled through their feeds, and the quiet hum of daily life resumed like nothing had ever happened.But for Leah and Jason, silence wasn’t peace. It was a weight. A pre
Ghost’s road back to himself was not quick, nor clean. It was a crawl, a scraping against the walls of his own fractured mind. The nightmares clung to him, memories of the Architects, of cages that weren’t physical but carved into the brain. Some nights he woke drenched in sweat, his chest heaving, fists raised as though fighting shadows no one else could see.But Leah was there. Jason was there. And the others; the team that had walked through fire together never let him slip back into the void.Day by day, piece by piece, Ghost returned.Not as the phantom he had once been. Not as a blunt instrument, a weapon turned loose. Something softer, yet sharper in ways none of them expected. His dry and unexpected humor began to peek out like cracks of sunlight. His words, once few and functional, carried weight, wisdom carved out of pain.He was no longer just a soldier. He became something else. A guardian. A teacher. A living reminder of survival.One late evening, weeks after the final c
“Jason, you’re running out of time,” Ben’s voice cracked over the comms, urgent, sharp. “Core temp is climbing again. Whatever you’re doing—do it now.”“I know,” Jason muttered, sweat beading across his brow though his body lay still in the medical bed. “I can almost see it.”The digital world around him flickered like a fever dream. Ghost’s subconscious reshaped itself into fragments; broken snapshots of a life lived in shadow. One moment a barren training field under an endless gray sky. The next, a silent ambush caught mid-breath, soldiers frozen like statues in the mist. Then a dark, windowless room where loneliness lived like a second skin.Jason ignored the chaos. He shut out the noise. Every fiber of his mind honed in on the task. This was surgery. No scalpel. No gloves. Just willpower and precision inside a maze of fractured thought.Leah’s voice threaded through the storm, steady, grounding. “Jason, listen to me. You’ve got this. You were made for this.”“I wasn’t made for an
“I hear it,” Jason says. “Timer.”“How long?” Ben asks.“I don’t know,” Jason says. “It’s not in seconds. It’s in recall cycles.”“So it’s counting memories?” Leah asks.“Yeah,” Jason says. “Every time we trigger a memory, the counter jumps.”“Then we’re already feeding it,” Ben says. “Awesome.”“We can starve it,” Leah says. “No more memories. Only the name. Only the song.”“Copy,” Jason says. He threads the name through the core of the web. The web screams without sound. The entire labyrinth tilts.“Easy,” Ben says. “Easy…”“It’s opening,” Jason says. “I can see the core now. It’s… small. Bright. Like an ember.”“Ghost,” Leah says, “do you feel that?”“I feel… warm,” Ghost says, confused. “I forgot warm.”“It’s you,” Leah says. “It’s the part that hurts when you’re gone because it’s the part we love.”“Don’t get poetic,” Ben says, voice tight. “Just finish.”“It’s not poetry,” Leah says. “It’s a map.”Jason cups the ember with thought. He doesn’t take. He doesn’t pull. He places the
“Don’t die in there,” Leah says, and her fingers grip Jason’s hard. “Because I’m coming in after you.”“I’m not planning on dying,” Jason says. “I’m planning on bringing him home.”“Both of you,” Ben says. “Preferably conscious.”“Flip the switch,” Jason says. “Before I think too hard about this.”“You’re sure?” Leah says.“I’m sure.” He looks at Ghost on the adjacent bed. “Hey, buddy. Hold on.”“Clock starts now,” Ben says. “Mini Core live in three… two… one—”The room hums. The lights jump. The small Neural Nexus Core glows like a trapped star.“Vitals steady,” Ben says. “Neural sync forming. Handshake good. Leah, I see your anchor line.”“I’ve got you, Jase,” Leah says. “Just listen to my voice. Find Ghost, then find the lock.”“I’m dropping,” Jason says, and his eyes slide shut. “Catching the current. I..”Everything flips.“Jason?” Leah says in his ear. “Talk to me.”“I’m here,” he says. “It’s loud. Bright. It’s… code and memory stacked like glass.”“Follow my count,” Leah says.
The night after the wedding, Jason barely slept.He kept hearing the violin’s last notes in his dreams, the sound bending and breaking into the steady beep, beep, beep of a machine keeping someone alive. Each time he woke, he saw Leah’s face in the shadows, watching him, her hand resting over his heart like she could keep it from racing.By morning, the celebration felt like a dream slipping away. Reality pressed back in.The guests were leaving one by one. Maya hugged Leah tightly at the car, whispering something only she could hear that made Leah wipe her eyes. Ben gave Jason a firm handshake that had none of the shaky nerves he once carried, only quiet respect. Amelia kissed Leah’s forehead before stepping back, her voice calm but final:Amelia: “Enjoy the peace while you can. The world doesn’t hand out days like yesterday often.”Leah: softly “We know.”And then they were gone, the vineyard suddenly too quiet. Just Jason and Leah left with the silence and the truth they’d been avo