The laboratory hummed with an eerie silence, broken only by the continuous bubbling of the clone tanks. Horace, his eyes wild with anticipation, pulled the final lever. A symphony of mechanical whirs and liquid gurgles filled the air.

"This time," he whispered, his voice trembling with hope, "this time, it will be perfect."

Countless iterations of Elena had emerged from these tanks, each a flawed, incomplete version of his deceased wife. But this one – this one would be different. This would be his Elena, returned to him at last.

At the far end of the lab, Roderick, the elderly janitor, adjusted pipes with practiced efficiency. His weathered face creased with annoyance as he observed his employer's manic behavior.

"How many times must this fool fail to accept she's gone?" Roderick muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. Aloud, he called out, "So, you're extracting the clone now?"

Horace whirled around, his lab coat flaring dramatically. "This isn't just a clone!" he exclaimed, eyes flickering with dangerous intensity. "This is my sweet Elena, my beloved wife, returned to me at last!"

Roderick raised an eyebrow, a flicker of dark humor crossing his face. "If you say so, boss," he mumbled, turning back to his work.

In truth, it was Roderick who had begun naming the clones, a futile attempt to differentiate the endless parade of imperfect copies. Each had simply been his latest designation, though to Horace, they were all "Elena" – his "returned Elena." This discrepancy often led to confusion between the two men, but Horace remained oblivious in his obsession.

The tank's green, viscous liquid drained with agonizing slowness. Safety locks disengaged with a series of metallic clicks, and the glass door swung open of its own accord. A pungent odor – the signature scent of clone cultivation – emerged, filling the laboratory.

Roderick returned his focus to the leaking pipe, bracing himself for yet another failure. Most clones died instantly upon extraction; others emerged with the mental capacity of a vegetable, a far cry from the brilliant woman Elena had once been.

A weak cough echoed through the lab. Horace rushed to kneel beside the tank, draping his disheveled jacket around the clone's shivering, slime-covered form.

"My love?" he whispered, reverence and desperate hope coloring his voice. "My sweet Elena! Speak to me, let me hear your lovely voice once more."

Horace cradled the clone, oblivious to the sticky amniotic fluid soaking through his clothes. His eyes shone with manic devotion – a man who, despite countless failures, refused to abandon his quest to reclaim the impossible: to bring back his beloved Elena.