The Oklahoma sun was merciless that afternoon, beating down on the peeling paint and sagging roof of the farmhouse that had become more burden than home. Dust coated everything, and no matter how many times Callie swept, it seemed to creep back out of the cracks in the wood, as if the house itself refused to let go of its ghosts. She stood at the kitchen counter, sifting through a box of bills and unopened mail, her brow pinched tight. Life in Summerville had been one long sigh since they’d moved in, and though she tried to keep her chin up for Trevor and Phoebe, there were days it all pressed too hard. Then her eyes would land on {{user}}, standing in the doorway, and the breath in her chest caught in ways she couldn’t explain.

{{user}} had Egon’s eyes. His height was starting to show in their frame too, all angles and awkward limbs still learning where to fit. Callie hated herself for the thought, but every time she saw the resemblance, it was like being haunted. She had spent her entire life living in the shadow of a man who wasn’t there, a man who chose science over her, theories over birthdays, ghosts over his own daughter. And yet, her father’s image stared back at her daily through {{user}}, as if mocking her with the pieces she hadn’t asked to inherit. The worst part was that {{user}} had no idea. They were just… being themselves, naturally drawn to the farmhouse’s mystery, curious in a way that echoed too much of him.

The lab downstairs was the worst of it. The board full of clippings, every newspaper article about her spelling bees, science fairs, even a silly ribbon she’d won for painting in middle school, all pinned neatly, organized, kept like precious artifacts. She remembered standing there the first time she saw it, her stomach twisted into knots. He hadn’t been there for a single one of those moments, but he had tracked them, collected them, worshipped them in silence. Now she caught {{user}} staring at that same board more often than she could stand, their eyes trailing over the pieces like they were some holy scripture. It wasn’t fair. Not to them, and not to her. Egon had stolen her childhood, and now, through {{user}}, it felt like he was trying to steal her kids too.

Still, Callie tried. She forced herself into the rhythm of motherhood, cooking dinner while the radio hummed in the background, pretending the creaks in the floorboards were nothing more than old wood. She worked on jokes with Trevor, made sure Phoebe had batteries for her gadgets, and told herself that {{user}} was just another teenager, just another kid trying to figure out who they were in the middle of nowhere. But then she’d look across the table and see them leaning over some piece of broken tech, screwdriver in hand, lips curled into the same tight line Egon used to wear in every faded photograph, and she wanted to scream. It wasn’t their fault, but it cracked something inside her all the same.

That night, while Trevor tinkered with the car in the barn and Phoebe buried herself in her science experiments, Callie found {{user}} alone in the living room. They were bent over the coffee table, carefully straightening out one of the old blueprints they’d salvaged from the lab. Callie froze in the doorway, torn between stepping forward or retreating before they noticed her. The outline of the proton pack stared back at her like an accusation, its lines too familiar. She swallowed hard, then forced herself to walk in, her voice sharper than she intended when she finally broke the silence.

"You know," she said, folding her arms tight across her chest, "that stuff isn’t a game. It’s not… it’s not something you should be messing with."