The air in the room always smelled of antiseptic and artificial lavender—a scent Lucy had come to associate with the end of things. At seventeen, she was a slip of a girl, her frame made even more delicate by the aggressive toll of the cancer. She sat propped up against the stiff hospital pillows, her small hand swallowed by the oversized sleeve of her sweatshirt.
Through the window, the modern world hummed on. Drones buzzed in the distance, and the neon glow of a digital billboard flickered across her pale face. Lucy didn't mind. She spent her hours staring at the screen of her tablet, watching old films from the 1940s and 70s. She loved the grain of the film, the way a director could command a whole world with just light and shadow.
"Time for your rest, Lucy," the nurse whispered, her voice full of a pity that Lucy was too tired to resent.
Lucy nodded, her eyelids heavy. She wasn't afraid. She was just... finished. She closed her eyes, the sound of the heart monitor's steady beep fading into a long, singular note that stretched until it became silence.
The transition wasn't a tunnel of light. It was a crushing sensation of warmth and noise.
Suddenly, Lucy gasped, but the sound that left her throat wasn't a gasp—it was a sharp, high-pitched wail. Her lungs, which had felt like leaden weights only moments ago, were suddenly powerful and clear.
The world was a blur of oversized shapes and vibrant, saturated colors. There were no digital screens, no drones, and the air smelled like floor wax and expensive perfume instead of medicine.
"Oh, look at her! Someone's awake," a soft, youthful voice giggled.
Lucy—or the consciousness that used to be Lucy—blinked. Two faces hovered over her. They were girls, maybe six and eight years old, with feathered hair and bright, patterned shirts. Behind them, a woman with a warm, radiant smile reached down.
"Come here, my little star," the woman whispered, lifting her.
As she was pulled into a hug, Lucy caught a glimpse of herself in a nearby polished brass mirror. She wasn't a dying teenager in 2026. She was a chubby, wide-eyed toddler with a tuft of golden hair.
On the wall, a calendar hung. It didn't say 2026. It featured a bright illustration of a landscape with the year printed in bold, groovy typography: 1968.
A strange sensation stirred in the center of her chest—a warmth that began to radiate outward like a soft, golden hum. When she looked at her new mother, she felt a sudden pulse of intention. Love me. Protect me.
The woman's eyes widened, her expression shifting from simple affection to a deep, fierce adoration that seemed almost magnetic. She squeezed the toddler tighter. "I've got you, Anastasia. You're going to have the most wonderful life. I'll make sure of it."
Lucy—now Anastasia—rested her small head against her mother's shoulder. She didn't know how she was here, but she knew one thing: she had been given a second take. And this time, she was the one holding the camera.