24.Echoes of the Past

The car pulled up. The streets were quiet—too quiet—a place where people learned to keep their heads down, to survive in the cracks left behind by progress.

At the end of a narrow alley, hidden between crumbling brick and rusted pipelines, sat a small ivy-covered townhouse. It stood stubbornly against the decay around it, refusing to be swallowed by time.

Ross pulled the car to a smooth stop, his blue eyes flicking toward Leah.

"Same code?"

Leah nodded, already reaching for the door.

Ross tapped the dash—a quiet signal that he wasn't leaving.

"You usually come once a week." His voice was casual, but his gaze was sharp, watching her reaction.

Leah hesitated, fingers tightening around the handle.

"Yeah." A pause. Then, quieter—"This time... might be the last."

Ross didn't press. Didn't tell her what they both already knew.

He just nodded once, steady, certain.

"I'll be here."

Leah stepped out, moving toward the door.

The entrance wasn't just locked—it was sealed.

A security pad blinked beside the handle, a remnant from another time—a world where safety had a price.

Leah pressed her thumb to the scanner.

A beep, then a metallic voice:

"Access granted. Welcome back, Miss Vale."

The door clicked open.

Inside, the air smelled of aged wood, and jasmine tea.

Leah stepped through, her boots barely making a sound against the old floorboards.

She didn't have to look for her.

She already knew where she'd be.

The Last Visit

The bedroom was dimly lit, the curtains drawn just enough to let the city's glow bleed through.

Grandma Mei lay propped against a mountain of pillows, her frail frame wrapped in soft blankets. She was small, but unshakable, her silver hair neatly pinned back, her sharp, dark eyes already waiting.

She always knew.

Her voice, soft but carrying the weight of years:

"Leah."

Leah swallowed down the sudden, tight heat in her chest.

"Hi, Grandma."

No hesitation.

No pleasantries.

Just warmth.

And the truth waiting underneath.

She moved to the bedside, sinking into the old wooden chair that had always been hers.

Two cups of tea sat waiting on the low table. Because of course, she knew.

Leah exhaled softly, fingers tracing the rim of the cup.

"You saw the leak."

A pause.

Then—Grandma Mei smiled.

Not in amusement.

Not in relief.

But in something quiet and knowing.

"I see everything, child."

Leah's throat tightened.

Her grandmother's fingers, thin but steady, tapped lightly against the blanket.

"You're leaving."

Not a question.

A statement.

Leah's hands curled slightly against her knees.

"I have to."

Grandma Mei nodded slowly, her gaze drifting toward the city lights outside.

"I knew this day would come."

A breath.

Then—

"But I wasn't ready for it."

Leah looked away, blinking back the sting behind her eyes.

"Me neither."

For a long moment, silence settled between them.

Not uncomfortable.

Not heavy.

Just time moving forward.

Then—

"Grandma... tell me about her."

The air shifted.

The soft creak of an old house holding onto memories too tightly.

The weight of a name unspoken for too long.

Grandma Mei's hand, resting lightly on the blanket, stilled.

Her voice—soft, but woven with steel and sorrow:

"You mean... your mother."

Leah's chest tightened, but she kept her voice firm.

"Yes. Mom."

Grandma Mei's gaze searched hers, seeing everything she hadn't said.

Everything she wanted to say.

A slow sigh—soft, weighted.

"Your mother... was fire."

Her eyes flickered with something painfully distant, a memory too sharp to hold.

"She burned bright. Always too bright."

Leah's voice, soft, but piercing:

"And she left."

A beat.

The words hung—cutting, aching.

Her grandmother's expression darkened, something old and guarded shifting behind her eyes.

"She didn't leave you." A pause. "She was taken from you."

Leah's spine stiffened, something cold threading through her ribs.

"How."

A flicker of something buried deep beneath years of silence.

Grandma Mei's voice was quiet, certain:

"They never told you."

Not a question.

A fact.

Leah's voice, cold and controlled:

"They told me she abandoned us."

A rare, sharp anger lit in her grandmother's eyes.

"They lied."

The room cracked with the weight of the word.

Leah's breath was tight, controlled, but her voice cut like a knife:

"Then tell me the truth."

A pause.

Then—

Grandma Mei's voice, soft and final:

"Your mother... was taken. Because of Rei Móu."

Leah's chest tightened, confusion flickering behind her sharp focus.

"What line? What does that mean?"

Her grandmother traced the rim of her cup, voice woven with memory and loss.

"In the early years—before the Alphas, before the gene programs—there were families. Rare lines. Their blood carried... something different."

A pause.

"Sharper resistance. Stronger adaptability." Her eyes darkened. "But most of all—" her gaze locked onto Leah's, knowing, cutting—

"They had something that couldn't be controlled."

Leah's pulse slowed, the weight of the words sinking into her skin.

Her voice, cold, sharp:

"And my mother was one of them."

A slow nod.

"She carried the Rei Móu bloodline. Your mother's genes made her valuable." Her grandmother's expression hardened. "And dangerous."

Leah's jaw clenched, heat rising under her skin.

"Dangerous to who?"

A flicker of bitterness.

"To the ones who decide who gets to live and die. The ones who built the Alpha-Omega system—" Grandma Mei's voice dipped lower, edged with something sharp. "—and called it nature."

Leah's breath hitched.

"The labs."

Her grandmother nodded. "She didn't run from you, Leah. She ran from them. Because they wanted to take her apart."

The words hit—sharp and shattering.

Leah's hands curled tight, her voice cold, dangerous:

"And you knew."

Grandma Mei's gaze didn't waver.

"I knew enough to know... if you carried even a trace of her bloodline—" her voice dipped lower, iron beneath it—"they would never stop coming for you."

Leah's pulse pounded.

Her voice, barely above a whisper:

"And do I?"

A pause.

Sharp. Electric. Unforgiving.

Then—

Grandma Mei's voice, low and final:

"You wouldn't be standing here if you didn't."

The air thickened.

And deep in Leah's chest—something old, raw, and aching ignited into fire.

"So what killed her?"

Grandma Mei's lips pressed tight—then, softly:

"She wasn't killed."

Her eyes sharpened, cutting through the air.

"She was taken."

And just like that—

The air collapsed.