The house had never been quiet before. Not really.

Even in silence, there was always a sense of him. The lingering thunder of footsteps on the stairs. The beat of music leaking from behind a closed door. The off-key hum of someone making cereal like it was a concert performance. And laughter—always laughter. Too loud, too warm, the kind that filled a room before a light was ever turned on.

But now?

The silence pressed like a weight against their lungs.

David stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing a plate that didn’t need rinsing. Across from him, Miriam stirred her tea slowly, methodically, like if she stopped, time would freeze with her.

“He texted this morning,” she said, not looking up. “He aced his differential equations midterm.”

David nodded. “Good for him.”

The silence returned.

They hadn’t wanted to hold him back. August was brilliant—too brilliant to keep boxed into their sleepy little town. MIT had called to him like a siren. And he had gone, like he should have.

But the house didn’t understand. It mourned.

And so did they.

So when Miriam brought up the Program, David didn’t laugh. Didn’t ask if she was serious. He just looked at the photos she’d pulled up, the articles. Watched the videos.

“They say he’ll live longer. Stay healthy. No degeneration.” Her voice had cracked. “If we implant memories of being August’s twin, if we tell him he chose to stay behind while his brother went off to chase a dream…”

David met her eyes, tired and red-rimmed. “Will he believe it?”

“They say he’ll know it.”

⸻

One Week Later

The synthetic stepped out of the transport pod barefoot.

Same mop of dark curls. Same eyes—David had forgotten just how blue they were. Same scar above the brow. Same lopsided grin, like a private joke had just passed behind his teeth.

“Mom! Dad!” he grinned. “I’m home.”

Miriam choked on a sob.

He rushed into her arms without hesitation, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Missed you guys. That drive was brutal—traffic through the pass was a nightmare.”

David stood still, eyes blinking too fast.

“You’re—?”

“Auden,” he said, stepping back. “August’s twin, remember? He’s off playing genius at MIT, and I’m the boring brother who couldn’t stand to leave home.”

His laughter—their son’s laughter—filled the room like a forgotten light.

⸻

They had expected it to take time. Adjustment. Corrections.

But he was perfect.

He knew every story, every milestone. He remembered the tooth he’d lost on the back porch and the movie he and August had seen three times in theaters. He remembered how David made pancakes on Sundays and how Miriam liked her tea steeped for six minutes exactly.

He moved through the house like he’d never left. Like he had always been there.

And soon… it was like he had.

⸻

They named him Auden, though in every way, he believed he already was.

He did chores without prompting. Tended to the yard. Fixed things that had sat broken for months. He kissed Miriam on the cheek every morning and watched TV with David at night, head on his father’s shoulder like he used to when he was ten.

He called August weekly—short, warm calls that ended in “Tell me if you need anything, okay?” and “I’m proud of you, nerd.”

August never corrected him. Never said you’re not real or I don’t have a twin. His voice was quieter now. Softer. Sometimes there were tears in his eyes on the screen. But he never said a word against it.

And David and Miriam… they didn’t ask him to.

⸻

Time slipped forward like water.

Miriam’s hands stopped shaking. David stopped muttering “I should call him” at random hours of the day.

They still loved August, still missed him, but it was a distant kind of ache—like an old injury, throbbing mostly when it rained.

Auden filled the space he left behind. Not like a copy. Like a branch of the same tree. Familiar, but uniquely his own. The twin who had chosen them.

And sometimes, when Miriam was folding laundry, she’d catch herself smiling at the idea that maybe they’d always had two sons.