"The closer you look, the more you see the cracks."
Morning sunlight streamed through the window, casting long shadows across the floor. Amelia sat on the couch, gripping a photo of Amalina. Her eyes lingered on the image of the young woman who felt like a stranger, yet there she was—smiling and alive in a reality that shouldn't exist.
Thomas stepped out of the kitchen, his shirt sleeves rolled up, looking more at ease in modern clothing than he had the day before. He carried two mugs of tea, setting one down in front of Amelia.
"You've been staring at that for hours," he said gently.
"I can't help it," Amelia replied, setting the frame on the coffee table. "She's… supposed to be my sister. But I don't remember her. Not a single memory, Thomas."
He studied her, his gaze steady. "That's what makes this troubling. If Amalinais woven into the timeline now, and you're the only one who remembers otherwise, we have to uncover why. This might be our way to stabilize the fractures."
Amelia nodded, wrapping her hands around the warm mug. "Mom said Amalina's been busy with her art classes. Maybe she has a studio or somewhere she spends time. If we can find her, maybe we can figure this out."
Thomas leaned forward, his expression serious. "Do you know where she might be?"
Amelia thought for a moment, then grabbed her phone. She scrolled through her contacts, her stomach twisting as she saw Amalina's name and number saved under Lina Loved.
"This feels so wrong," she muttered. "I'm calling someone I'm supposed to know but don't."
Thomas rested a hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to go through this alone."
Amelia nodded and pressed the call button. The phone rang twice before a cheerful voice answered.
"Amelia! Hey, I wasn't expecting you to call. What's up?"
Amelia froze, her heart pounding. Amalinasounded so familiar, as if they'd spoken a thousand times before.
"Uh, hi, Lina," she stammered. "I was just thinking about you. I thought maybe we could meet up?"
"Sure! I'm at the studio right now," Amalina said. "Why don't you come by? I've got a few pieces I'm working on, and I'd love to show you."
"That sounds great," Amelia said, her voice unsteady. "Text me the address, and I'll head over."
After ending the call, she looked at Thomas. "She sounded so… normal. Like we've talked a million times before."
Thomas nodded. "It's a good sign. If Amalina exists naturally in this timeline, she may hold the answers we're looking for."
The art studio was tucked away in a quiet part of the city, a renovated warehouse with large windows that flooded the space with light. Amelia hesitated at the entrance, her hand resting on the door handle.
Thomas stood beside her, his calm presence steadying her nerves. "Are you ready?"
"No," Amelia admitted. "But I don't think I ever will be."
"Sometimes, the most familiar faces are the ones you've never seen before."
Amelia pushed open the heavy door to the art studio, the scent of paint and varnish filling her senses immediately. Sunlight poured in through tall windows, bouncing off vibrant canvases that seemed to breathe with life. A soft voice called out from the far end of the room.
"Amelia!"
The woman standing there looked so much like her it was unnerving. Amalina's wide smile and warm eyes carried a familiarity that made Amelia's chest tighten.
"You made it," Amalina said, walking toward her with open arms.
"I… yeah, I guess I did." Amelia allowed the hug, stiff at first, then relaxing. It was surreal, like being embraced by a memory she didn't know she had.
"Whoa," Thomas muttered from behind her, taking in the studio. "This place is… intense."
Amalina turned to him, her smile unshaken. "And you must be Thomas. Amelia's told me so much about you."
Thomas blinked, glancing at Amelia. "Has she now?"
Amelia stammered. "Uh, yeah, well… not exactly—"
"Come on," Amalina interrupted, grabbing Amelia's hand. "You have to see this."
Amalina led them deeper into the studio, where dozens of paintings were arranged in seemingly random order. Landscapes, portraits, abstract swirls of color—each one drew Amelia in. But then her eyes landed on a specific painting, and the world seemed to tilt.
It was a portrait of two young girls sitting under a sprawling tree, their hands clasped, their smiles identical. One of them was unmistakably Amelia. The other was Amalina.
"Do you remember this?" Amalina asked, her voice soft.
Amelia blinked. "I—what? No. I don't."
Amalina's smile faltered for the briefest moment. "Really? We spent hours under that tree when we were kids. You used to call it our 'thinking spot.'"
"That's not possible," Amelia said, stepping closer to the painting. Her head began to throb as fragmented images flashed in her mind. The warmth of sunlight, the rustling of leaves, Amalina's laughter—but none of it felt real.
"Amelia?" Thomas's voice cut through her haze.
"I'm fine," she lied, shaking her head.
As they moved through the studio, Thomas couldn't shake his unease. Amalina was too… perfect. Her movements, her words, even her smile—it all felt rehearsed.
"You've got a serious talent," Thomas said casually, gesturing at the paintings. "How long have you been doing this?"
Amalina shrugged, dabbing her hands on a paint-stained rag. "Feels like forever. Amelia used to paint with me, you know."
Thomas arched a brow. "Really?"
"Of course," Amalina replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "She had this way of blending colors—like, she could make the sunset look alive."
Amelia frowned. "That's not true. I've never painted in my life."
"Don't be silly," Amalina said with a laugh. "You were amazing at it. Don't you remember the mural we worked on in the backyard?"
Thomas's eyes narrowed. "She doesn't."
The room grew tense. Amalina's laugh faded, replaced by a wistful look. "Maybe it's just been too long."
Before they left, Amalina handed Amelia a small painting—a vibrant swirl of blues and greens. "Take this. I painted it for you. Something told me you'd need it."
"Thanks," Amelia said, her voice uncertain as she clutched the canvas.
As they stepped outside, Thomas couldn't hold back anymore. "She's lying."
Amelia sighed. "Thomas, don't start—"
"No, seriously," he insisted. "Everything about her is too perfect. The way she talks, the way she knows things about you that don't make sense—it's like she's been programmed to fit into your life."
"She's not a robot," Amelia snapped. "She's… she's my sister. At least, I think she is."
Thomas gave her a hard look. "Think about it, Amelia. If she's your sister, then why don't you remember her?"
Amelia didn't answer. She couldn't.
As they walked down the street, Amelia couldn't shake the unease in her chest. Something about Amalina's words, her paintings, even her presence—it all felt off.
Just before they turned the corner, Amelia glanced back at the studio window.
Amalina was there, watching them through the glass, her expression calm but unreadable.
"She's hiding something," Amelia whispered to herself, clutching the painting tighter.