The moment Ava slammed the door shut behind her, the silence screamed.
Her back pressed against the wood, heart thudding against her ribs. The townhouse seemed to breathe with her—exhaling dust, inhaling secrets. She took a hesitant step forward.
The floor creaked.
She stopped.
No more footsteps from upstairs. But she knew what she heard. Someone—or something—was up there.
She glanced around. No weapon in sight, but a fireplace poker leaned beside the hearth. She grabbed it, gripping it tightly as if courage could be forged from iron.
Upstairs, a door creaked.
Ava flinched. Her breath caught in her throat.
She crept up the stairs, one step at a time, poker in hand, heart pacing like a prisoner trying to escape.
The hallway upstairs was narrow and dark. Dust floated like mist in the air. Doors lined each side—closed, silent, waiting.
She approached the first door and pushed it open.
Empty.
An old study. Books scattered. Dusty furniture.
She stepped back, closing it quietly.
Another creak. Farther down the hall.
She moved toward the last door. The one slightly ajar.
Faint whispers filtered through the crack—like radio static mixed with a distant voice.
She nudged the door with the poker.
The room was bathed in an amber hue. The curtains glowed from light filtering through the grime. And on the bed sat a small tape recorder.
Nothing else.
No person. No footsteps.
Just that recorder.
She stepped in, knees weak, heart pounding. She crouched before the recorder. It was playing, though no cassette was inside.
The whispering grew louder.
Ava reached for it. The moment her fingers touched the plastic, it stopped.
Dead silence.
She stared at the recorder. Her reflection shimmered faintly in its surface.
Then she saw it.
Behind her.
In the reflection.
A man.
Standing in the hallway.
She turned sharply, raising the poker.
But no one was there.
She stumbled back. Her breath was uneven, ragged. What the hell was going on?
She needed answers. Now.
She dashed down the stairs, slipped the tape back into its box, and stuffed it into her coat.
Outside, the wind sliced through her. Her hands trembled as she dialed Caroline.
Voicemail.
She cursed under her breath.
She needed to get back to Boston.
Now.
---
The bus station buzzed with the rhythm of transience. People moving, going, leaving behind places and people.
Ava sat by the window, hood pulled up, coat wrapped tight.
She clutched the box in her lap.
The tape.
"Cassandra. March 17."
She stared at the smudged letters. So many questions, and only a ghost of an answer.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Again.
She answered, whispering, "Hello?"
A voice, calm, cold.
"You took it."
Ava's blood ran cold. "Who is this?"
"You weren't supposed to open the library."
She glanced around. Everyone on the bus seemed normal. No eyes on her. No stares.
"How do you know where I am?"
Click.
Call ended.
The bus started to move.
She closed her eyes, the hum of the engine a small comfort.
---
Back in Boston, Caroline's apartment was still exactly as Ava remembered—bohemian chaos, overflowing bookshelves, warm lighting.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Caroline said as she opened the door.
Ava stepped in, exhausted. "Maybe I did."
Caroline raised an eyebrow.
Ava dropped the box on the coffee table. "I need your old tape recorder."
Caroline dug through a closet and pulled out a dusty device. "You're lucky I hoard vintage tech."
They inserted the cassette.
It clicked.
Whirred.
And then the voice.
Ben.
"If you're hearing this, it means I failed to keep it from you."
Ava gasped. Caroline sat down, stunned.
Ben's voice continued.
"Cassandra is real. She's not a file. She's not a person. She's a project. And they'll do anything to keep her buried."
Static.
Then a different voice.
Female. Mechanical.
"Project Cassandra initiated. Subject: Ava Mitchell. Date: March 17."
Ava paused the tape.
She stared at Caroline.
"Did it say... I'm the subject?"
Caroline's mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Ava rewound it.
Played it again.
Same sentence. Cold. Final.
Ava Mitchell.
She was Cassandra.
Or part of it.
She stood, dizzy. "None of this makes sense."
Caroline stood, too. "You need to tell me everything. Now."
So Ava did.
She told her about the café. Ben. The flash drive. The tape. The townhouse. The voice on the phone.
Caroline listened, eyes wide, arms folded.
When Ava finished, the room felt heavier.
Caroline walked to the window. "Ava... I think you were part of something you don't remember."
"Like what?"
"Like a trial. A program. Something experimental. Ben was trying to keep it from surfacing. But maybe it already has."
Ava sat down, her body shaking.
"There's more on the tape," she said.
Caroline pressed play.
More static.
Ben's voice again. "Find Evelyn. She knows. She was the lead."
Ava leaned forward. "Evelyn who?"
The tape didn't say.
Then came coordinates.
Ava jotted them down.
A place.
Somewhere near Lake Placid.
A cabin.
"I have to go there," Ava whispered.
Caroline shook her head. "You're not going alone."
Ava nodded. "Then come with me."
---
They left that night. A rental car. A backpack. Cold air swirling through the headlights.
Hours of silent roads. Radio static. Ava watched the trees blur past, thinking about how her life had unraveled so quickly.
She turned to Caroline. "You believe me, right?"
Caroline glanced at her. "I don't understand it yet. But yes, I believe you."
It was enough.
For now.
They reached the edge of Lake Placid by dawn. The coordinates led them through a trail—barely marked—into the woods.
The trees towered, their branches clawing at the sky.
Caroline slipped once. Ava caught her.
"Thanks."
Ava smiled faintly. "I think this is the place."
A cabin stood at the end of the path. Wooden. Silent. Covered in frost.
They approached cautiously.
Ava knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again.
Then the door creaked open.
An elderly woman stood in the shadows.
"Ava Mitchell?"
Ava froze. "Yes."
"Come in. Quickly."
They entered.
The woman led them to a small kitchen table.
"I'm Evelyn. I was expecting you."
Ava's voice trembled. "You were?"
Evelyn nodded. "Ben warned me."
Ava sat. "Please. Tell me what Project Cassandra is."
Evelyn sighed. "It began as a dream. A way to enhance memory, store consciousness, prevent loss. We thought we could stop death from stealing identity."
Caroline frowned. "You mean digital consciousness?"
"In part. But more. We weren't copying minds. We were editing them. Cleaning. Reprogramming."
Ava's stomach turned. "Reprogramming who?"
"Volunteers. Or... test subjects. Some knew. Some didn't. You didn't."
Ava stared at her. "I was part of it?"
Evelyn nodded slowly. "You were one of the few who rejected the edits. You remembered pieces. Ben hid you to protect you."
Caroline shook her head. "This is insane."
Evelyn slid a folder across the table. "Inside are records. Your real memories. Your real file. Not what they let you keep."
Ava hesitated. Then opened it.
Photos.
Charts.
Entries. Some in her handwriting.
"I... I don't remember writing these."
Evelyn stood. "You will. In time. But they'll come for you before that."
Caroline asked, "Who's 'they'?"
Evelyn looked out the window.
Black SUVs lined the hill.
"Them."
Ava's heart dropped.
She was out of time.
---