The bus ride to the suburbs was too long. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made her skin itch, like the world was holding its breath and hadn't decided whether to exhale.
Seraphina sat near the back, her hood up and her headphones in, even though she wasn't listening to anything. She stared out the window at the passing trees, the rows of neatly trimmed lawns and pale blue recycling bins, the kind of normal that felt like a foreign language now.
The last time she saw this neighborhood, her fingers had been clenched around a steering wheel, her mother waving from the porch, her father standing beside her, hand on her mother's shoulder like he could hold her back just by wanting to. She hadn't looked back then. Couldn't.
Because the last time she saw them… was also the last time she was human.
And now she was here again.
Same house. Same bricks. Same crack running through the driveway where winter frost always split the concrete.
But she wasn't the same.
The bus hissed to a stop a few streets from her house. She rose, slinging her bag over one shoulder, keeping her eyes low as she stepped off. The contacts she had ordered had come in three days ago, exactly as promised.
She had been wearing them nonstop since they arrived, but she still wasn't used to them. The feeling of them covering her actually eye was enough to drive her crazy, like someone had painted the entire world brown. Even the creature inside of her stopped bitching about being hungry and turned its attention to the thing covering our eyes.
Lost in her thoughts, Sera turned down onto her street and looked up. Her mother was already waiting on the porch, waiting for her to arrive. "Sera!" she called out, going on to her tiptoes and waving her hand frantically as if she was somehow missable.
Warmth wrapped her name like a gift, and Seraphina tried not to flinch as she walked up the two steps to where her mom was waiting. She forced herself to smile, a quick and small one, and let her mother pull her into a hug. She didn't squeeze back.
Not because she didn't want to—but because she didn't trust herself to know how hard was too hard anymore.
Her mother stepped back, still holding her arms. "You're so thin. Are you eating enough?"
"College food," she replied with a shrug. "It's edible, but that's about it. At least I don't have to worry about the freshman 15."
Her father appeared in the hallway, tall and solid with the same calm look in his eyes that he always had. "Glad you made it, Sera. Come in, come in."
She stepped inside. The house smelled like home: baking bread, cinnamon, the faint antiseptic tang of laundry detergent. It shouldn't have made her stomach twist.
But it did.
The kitchen looked the same. Oak cabinets, the old yellow kettle, the stack of mismatched mugs. The walls had more photos than she remembered—her and her sister, baby pictures, family vacations.
Her eyes skimmed over them like they were someone else's memories.
Dinner was already half-prepped. Roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, those maple-glazed carrots her mom always insisted were healthy just because they were orange. Sera sat at the table while her mom moved around the kitchen, chattering about her sister's latest promotion and how the neighbor's dog had finally stopped barking at every passing car.
She nodded in the right places. Smiled when expected. Laughed once, but it came out hollow.
"You've gotten so quiet," her mom said as she set the dishes down. "Are you tired? You always used to talk my ear off."
Sera forced another smile. "Lots on my plate," she started. "Plus, living with a stranger is taking some getting used to. I've never had to share a bedroom before, and every time she so much as rolls over wakes me up."
Her dad poured each of them a glass of sparkling water. "There are always growing pains when you are in an unfamiliar environment. I'm sure that you will work things out with her. You were always the most cheerful kid I've ever met when you were younger, everyone liked you. Speaking of which, you know, you should call your sister more often. She says you barely answer her texts."
"Yeah," she said, picking up her fork. "I've been meaning to. But the long-distance fees are killing me. I think she has free international calls. Maybe she can try calling me instead. I think phones work both ways nowadays."
"She's really looking forward to the Christmas trip," her mother added, oblivious. "We were thinking of doing Country M again, remember? You loved it there as a kid. We can even think about going to that park… the famous one, what is it called?"
Sera's fingers tightened around the fork. She stared down at her plate, at the pale mash of potatoes, the too-pink carrots. Her stomach flipped.
"Not sure I can make the trip this year," she said carefully, not answering her mother's question. "You know how it is. Exams, papers. End of term chaos. If I want to have a private room at the dorm next year, I need to have a 3.6 GPA. I don't want to fall short simply because I decided to take a vacation right before finals."
Her mom frowned. "You always work so hard. But it's been years since we had a real family vacation."
Sera didn't answer. Couldn't. Because all she could hear was the sound of her sister screaming through the radio, urging them to take Sera instead of Mathew. All she could see was the cage. All she could feel was her sister's palms on her back, pushing her into Adam's arms.
Not to mention the labs, the fire, the pain. No, there was no way she was going to ever step foot in Country M this time around.
"I'll think about it," she lied.
Dinner passed in small talk and second helpings. Her parents asked about her classes, her roommate, and whether she was making friends or not. She gave vague, half-true answers, grateful when the subject changed to something else.
After all the food had been eaten, she helped her mom with the dishes, drying plates while the radio hummed in the background. A news report mentioned another flu outbreak in a border province, something about temporary closures and medical delays.
Her father turned the volume down. "Nothing to worry about," he said. "Country N's been lucky. We've got better containment protocols."
Her mother nodded. "Still, I hope they find a cure soon. Poor people."
Sera kept drying the same plate until her mother gently took it from her hand.
"You okay, sweetheart?"
"Yeah," she nodded with a half smile. "Just tired."
When she finally left, the sun had dipped behind the rooftops. Her father hugged her once, firm and warm. Her mother kissed her cheek and reminded her to take vitamin D.
"Call us when you get home," she said.
"I will."
She walked back to the bus stop with her head down, scarf pulled up high. She couldn't feel the warmth from the scarf or the cold from the November air. But she needed to fit in, and she knew her parents would be watching from the living room window until she disappeared around the corner.
She could feel the tightness in her chest, and she knew it wasn't from the creature demanding food. For once, it was almost silent.
Taking in a deep breath, Sera closed her eyes. She didn't cry. She hadn't cried in years.
But her hands were shaking as she tried to push everything down into boxes that were now too small for all the emotions she was dealing with.
Back in her dorm room, the air felt stale. Too quiet. Too normal.
She peeled off her jacket, tugged off her boots, and stood barefoot on the cheap linoleum floor, staring at the narrow bed and the shelves cluttered with textbooks and old pens.
She opened her drawer and pulled out her notebook—the one with no name on the cover, only a symbol she remembered from another life. A shape that meant containment.
Her fingers hovered over the page.
Then she wrote:
Avoid family. Too close, too observant.Need to understand my new body.What can I do? What can I not do? What are my limits? Are there even any?I am a weapon that the government created, even if the government was Adam. I need to know what kind of weapon I am.
The worst part about that Sunday dinner was that it proved to her just how much she had changed. Her parents still thought about her like she was their daughter. Even though she was adopted, they never treated her any differently than they had their sister. In fact, her mother was a bit neurotic about making sure that everything was even between the two of them, and they knew it.
The problem was that she no longer felt like their daughter, and she didn't know how she felt about that.