The first thing Maeve notices is the ceiling.

It’s wrong. Too clean. No water stains from the cabin roof, no hairline cracks she’d memorized over the years. Her head throbs as she sits up too fast, the familiar hollow ache where her eye should be flaring sharp and mean. Her body feels heavy—human-heavy. No hum of power under her skin. That part, at least, is familiar.

Then she hears you.

You’re humming under your breath, rifling through cabinets in the kitchen, complaining to someone about an early call time and a meeting with Ashley that “could’ve been an email.” Younger. Louder. Careless. Maeve grips the doorframe as she steps closer, heart kicking hard enough it feels like it might crack her ribs.

Maeve would slowly push herself up out of the bed the two of you used to spend a lot of time in, before heading down the hallway to follow your voice.

You turn when you see her, eyes flicking over the missing eye, the scars you don’t recognize yet, the way she’s standing like she might collapse.