A brief pause. Then the words appeared: "You will complete a small task."
Grayson exhaled shakily, his mind racing. A task. How small could it be? Could it really bring them back? His fingers flexed as if clenching the air itself.
He opened his eyes, staring at the floating screen. "Fine. I accept."
The moment the words left his lips, the world shifted. The rain, the street, the van—they all blurred and dissolved. Gravity seemed to lose its hold, the air around him thickened like liquid, and an almost electric tension wrapped around his body.
The screen's smoky edges stretched wider, enveloping him. "Preparation for transition begins," it typed, each letter pulsing with a strange energy.
Grayson swallowed hard, fear and anticipation warring in his chest. He had no idea what was coming next, only that he had chosen a path he could never turn back from.
Grayson's eyelids grew heavy, his thoughts scattered as the void around him folded into black. He felt himself sink—not falling, but drifting into a dream he couldn't escape.
Then the visions came.
He was standing in a garage. The air smelled of oil, iron, and burning rubber. A young man—tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair damp from sweat—was bent over the hood of an old sedan. His hands were grease-stained, his movements practiced.
"Jason, you're late again," a voice called from the corner.
Grayson turned his head and spotted a stocky man in overalls, laughing while wiping his palms on a rag.
Jason—the name echoed in Grayson's mind—smirked. "Yeah, yeah, Sam, I know. Blame my alarm. Or better yet, blame Sophie for barging in last night asking me to check her math homework."
The men in the garage chuckled. Another mechanic, a woman with her sleeves rolled up, raised an eyebrow. "What's a twelve-year-old doing keeping you awake till midnight? You spoil that kid."
Jason shrugged. "She's my sister. What am I supposed to do? Tell her no?"
"You could," Sam said with a grin, "but then she'd cry, and you'd run right back anyway."
As they laughed, the dream shifted. Grayson blinked, and suddenly Jason was sitting at a small dining table in a modest kitchen. Across from him sat a little girl, her brown hair tied messily in a ponytail, a school uniform half-untucked.
"Jason!" she whined, pushing a notebook toward him. "You have to help me! If I fail math again, Miss Daniels will give me those private lessons that I hate so much. Please, please, please!"
Jason leaned back, smirking. "Sophie, it's like… what, fractions? You've got this."
"No, I don't!" she said dramatically, throwing her hands over her face. "It's evil. Numbers are evil. You're good with machines, you should understand this alien stuff."
Grayson felt his chest tighten. He wasn't Jason, yet it was as though he were looking out from Jason's eyes, feeling the warmth of Sophie's desperation.
Jason chuckled and ruffled her hair. "Alright, alright. Don't cry, brainiac. Let's see what you've got."
Sophie peeked up, hopeful. "If I get it right… can we get ice cream after school tomorrow?"
"Deal," Jason said without hesitation.
The scene blurred again, whisking him back to the garage. Jason was showing his coworkers Sophie's latest antics.
"She drew this in class," Jason said, pulling a crumpled paper from his pocket. It was a doodle of a stick figure with messy hair labeled Big Bro Jason the Car King.
Sam burst out laughing. "She nailed the hair."
The woman mechanic snorted. "And the ego."
Jason smiled proudly anyway. "What can I say? She's got talent."
Grayson's thoughts raced. These weren't just meaningless dreams. They were fragments of a life—memories belonging to this Jason. Each detail felt real: the grease under Jason's nails, Sophie's whining voice, the teasing from coworkers.
Then another dream snapped into focus. Sophie again, sitting at the kitchen table with a serious expression, holding her schoolbag.
"Jason…" she whispered. "You're not going anywhere, right?"
Jason froze. "What do you mean?"
"You're always so busy. Sam says you work too hard. Sometimes I'm scared you'll… leave. Like Uncle said Mom and Dad did." Her little voice cracked.
Jason reached over, hugging her tightly. "Sophie, I'm not going anywhere. I promise. No matter what happens, you'll always have me."
Grayson's heart ached. It wasn't his life, but he felt the promise like it had come from his own lips.
The dream wove on—Sophie's school troubles, Jason joking with friends at the garage, clients laughing at his sister's silly drawings left stuck to his work desk. Piece by piece, Grayson understood. These weren't random illusions. They were memories. Jason's life. The body he was being pulled into.
"Jason, you're at it again, huh?" a voice called.
Grayson turned toward the sound. A stocky man with a messy beard—Sam, his name rose unbidden—leaned against the doorway, sipping from a dented thermos.
Jason straightened, tossing his wrench on the workbench. "Yeah. Car's an old mess. Thought I'd get a head start before the boss starts barking."
"You're gonna burn yourself out," Sam muttered, stepping inside. "You work late, you work early, and if I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to live here."
Jason chuckled. "Well, cheaper rent, cheaper stress."
Another voice cut through the room. "Or maybe he's hiding from his little sister."
It was Mara—the only woman in the shop, her dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail, her sleeves rolled up past grease-smeared elbows. She walked past them, grabbed the same wrench Jason had discarded, and eyed him knowingly.
Jason smirked. "I don't hide from Sophie."
"Please," Sam snorted. "She's got you wrapped around her pinky. Kid cries, and suddenly big bro Jason is making midnight ramen, triple-checking homework, and telling bedtime stories like she's five."
"She's twelve," Jason corrected flatly.
"Exactly my point." Mara grinned. "Normal brothers don't get stuck doing that at twelve."
Jason shook his head, but Grayson could feel something under it—a fondness, almost pride.
The scene blurred, and Grayson blinked. Now Jason was in a small kitchen, evening light spilling through faded curtains. Sophie sat at the table, school uniform wrinkled, hair falling from her ponytail. She shoved a notebook across the table.
"Jason, you have to help me! I don't get it. It doesn't make sense."
Jason sighed, leaning back in his chair. "What is it this time?"
"Fractions. Evil fractions. I swear they're out to get me." She threw her arms dramatically across the table.
Jason smirked. "Fractions aren't evil. They're just… misunderstood."
"Mis—Jason, they're numbers that break into more numbers. That's evil!"
Grayson wanted to laugh, but he felt Jason's chuckle instead, warm and tired.
"Alright, alright," Jason said, sliding the notebook closer. "Let's see what the evil numbers are doing to you."
The memories began to overlap now—Jason's laughter in the garage, Sophie's stubborn whines, the sound of tools clinking against metal, the warmth of home cooked noodles late at night, Sophie's school stories spilling out in endless chatter.
And Grayson understood. These weren't just dreams. They were Jason's life. The life he was being dragged into.
And Sophie—innocent, stubborn, twelve years old—was at the heart of it all.