Edward asked, addressing Lily but including Martha in his gaze.
Lily nodded, her expression a mix of curiosity and apprehension. As they moved through the main living areas—the great room with its wall of windows facing the lake, the chef’s kitchen where Edward admitted he rarely cooked, the media room with its massive screen—Lily showed interest but no recognition. It wasn’t until they reached the second floor that her demeanor changed.
As they approached a door at the end of the hallway, Lily suddenly stopped. Her hand went to her temple, where the crescent scar marked her skin.
“What is it?” Martha asked, concerned.
“I don’t know,” Lily whispered. “Something about this hallway feels familiar.”
Edward’s pulse quickened. “This was Emma’s room,” he said, gesturing to the door. “Would you like to see it?”
Lily nodded, and Edward pushed the door open to reveal a bedroom preserved exactly as Emma had left it. Sky-blue walls decorated with glow-in-the-dark stars, bookshelves filled with astronomy books and science kits, a telescope by the window pointed toward the lake.
Lily walked in slowly. Her eyes scanned the room as if searching for something. Martha and Edward remained in the doorway, watching as she approached the bookshelf and ran her fingers over the spines. She stopped at a well-worn copy of *The Little Prince*, pulling it from the shelf and opening the flyleaf.
“To my stargazer, Emma,” she read aloud. “May you always find your way by the stars. Love, Dad.” She looked at Edward. “You wrote this.”
It wasn’t a question, and Edward found he couldn’t speak through the lump in his throat. He simply nodded. Lily replaced the book carefully and moved to the bed, where a collection of stuffed animals was arranged against the pillows. Without hesitation, she reached for a scruffy teddy bear wearing a tiny NASA t-shirt.
“Cosmo,” she said softly, looking at the bear. Then, with a suddenness that made both adults start, she turned to Edward. “You gave this to me when I had my tonsils out. You said he’d been to space and back, so he knew all about being brave.”
Edward’s legs nearly gave way. It was true. He’d made up an elaborate story about ‘Cosmo,’ the astronaut bear, when a five-year-old Emma had been terrified of her tonsillectomy.
“That’s right,” he managed to say, his voice barely a whisper. “You remember that?”
Lily hugged the bear to her chest, looking bewildered. “I don’t know how I remember. It just popped into my head when I touched him.”
Martha moved to her side, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay, honey? This must be overwhelming.”
Lily nodded, but her expression remained troubled. “It’s scary. Like there are two different people in my head—Lily and Emma. But they’re both me.” She looked at Edward. “What do I call you now, if I’m your daughter?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” Edward assured her quickly. “There’s no rush to figure everything out at once.”
Lily’s attention was caught by a small desk in the corner where a closed photo album lay. She approached it and opened the cover, revealing pages of carefully preserved photos.
“Emma as a baby, a toddler at the beach, a young girl on her first day of school…”
“Mom,” she whispered suddenly, touching a photo of a beautiful, dark-haired woman holding a younger Emma on her lap. “Where is she?”
The innocent question sent a jolt of pain through Edward. “She’s no longer with us,” he said gently. “She got very sick when you were five. That’s why it was just the two of us when… when the accident happened.”
Lily traced the woman’s face in the photo. “I remember her perfume,” she said distantly. “Like flowers and vanilla.”
Martha wiped a tear from her eye, watching as the child she had raised began to reclaim fragments of a past life. “She’s remembering, Ed,” she said quietly. “She really is your Emma.”
Edward nodded, not trusting his voice. The evidence was becoming undeniable—not just the physical resemblance, but these specific, personal memories that no one could have coached her to recall.
Lily continued to flip through the pages of the album, occasionally stopping at a photo that triggered a memory: birthdays, family vacations, ordinary moments that had been lost to her for two years. Suddenly, she stopped at a photo of herself at an amusement park, wearing a silver star pendant, standing in front of a Ferris wheel.
“My necklace,” she said, touching the image. “The star necklace you gave me for my seventh birthday. We were at the county fair. The Ferris wheel got stuck, and I was scared, but you told me a story until it started moving again.” She looked at Edward, the question clear in her eyes: what happened to it?
