The cold hits first. Then the light—blinding, sterile, humming with machines that shouldn’t exist anymore. I gasp, my lungs burning as if I’ve swallowed winter. Tubes rip free. I collapse onto the floor of the pod, trembling, staring at the cracked glass above me. The date flashes on the console: 87 years since I closed my eyes.\n\nMy room is gone. The house is a ruin, vines clawing through shattered windows. But the tree—the one the boys planted for my birthday—is still standing, twisted and ancient. At its base, a rusted metal box. Inside, a holodisk labeled: 'Mom, We Didn’t Know.'\n\nThen footsteps. Heavy. Familiar.\n\nKael stands in the doorway, older, harder, a weapon strapped to his side. He doesn’t smile. 'You shouldn’t have woken up,' he says. 'Some truths should stay buried.'\n\nBehind him, two shadows move. Dax and Renn. One holds a data-blade. The other whispers, 'She’s really here.'\n\nI open my mouth, but no sound comes. Do I reach for them? Demand answers? Or run before the past kills me all over again?