6. Let the Heart Remember

Jean's Point of View

We moved to the basement like shadows retracing old steps, the weight of the past pressing down on our shoulders with every creaking floorboard. The staircase seemed to know our hesitation, groaning beneath us as though it, too, had something to say about the burden we were carrying. The flickering light overhead buzzed, like it had stage fright, casting long, unsteady shadows across the room.

The basement wasn't just a storage space. It wasn't just a forgotten corner of the house. It was a secret archive — a vault filled with memories that no one wanted to touch. A place where history was hidden, not lost, but locked away, kept from the world for fear that the world wouldn't understand.

It smelled like cedar, dust, and defiance. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and a thousand secrets, the kind that clung to you and didn't let go.

Jennie was the first to approach the table in the center. Her fingers brushed the edges of the leather-bound book that was already laid open, like it had been waiting for us. The yellowed parchment stretched across the oak surface, a relic, aged but unyielding, as if time had known better than to touch it. The ink was bold, deliberate, untouched by the years that had passed. Like it had been written with the weight of something unspoken, something that could not — would not — be forgotten.

Four signatures. Our mothers'. Rose. Lila. Elise. Names written with a kind of intensity that couldn't be faked. A legacy forged in fear and fire.

I watched Jennie's eyes scan the words, her brow furrowing as she read aloud the first passage. Her voice was soft, laced with the grief we hadn't had the time to mourn.

If we fall, our children must carry the flame.

If they forget, help them remember.

If they are silenced, give them voice.

If they are hunted, give them power.

If they are lost… bring them home.

Felix leaned in, his fingers brushing against the edge of the table, his usual smirk gone. When Jennie finished reading, a heavy silence fell over us. The words seemed to hold the room captive, the weight of them pressing down on us as if they knew we were the ones who were going to have to live them out.

"They wrote this after Kieran's accident," Jennie said, her voice quieter now. "They knew what was coming."

I stepped forward, my hand hovering over the pages but never touching. It felt sacred, untouchable. "And they knew we'd be the ones to finish it."

Felix, ever the skeptic, tilted his head. "Finish it? That's a hell of a thing to say, Jean."

I couldn't bring myself to answer him. I just stood there, staring at the words, knowing deep down that the weight of this plan was too big to escape. That what was coming next would be more than just the end of a story. It would be the beginning of something else entirely. Something neither of us could walk away from.

I flipped the page, my fingers skimming the worn edge of the parchment. It was the part I had been avoiding, the one that felt too heavy, too real. The words on the page were stark. Clear. No room for confusion. I stared at them for a long time. At the top of the page, in the same bold handwriting:

Phase One.

Jean must reconnect Kieran to the past. Let the heart restore what time has erased. Memory will follow where history calls. Memory will follow love. Love will protect memory.

I let the silence settle around us as the words lingered in the air, as if the room itself was holding its breath. It felt like something was shifting, like we were crossing a line that could never be uncrossed.

"It was always going to be me," I whispered. "Even before the accident."

Jennie turned to me, her gaze softer now, but with something else beneath it — something like understanding, but with the shadow of doubt still hovering. "It must be easy for you. You two were… more than friends."

The air grew thick with what wasn't said. I didn't answer, because she was right, but I couldn't say it aloud. Not now. Not when it all felt so heavy and fragile. Not when we were already standing on the edge of something we couldn't take back.

Felix stepped in, his posture relaxed, as if nothing in the world could ever touch him. He grabbed a dusty binder that Jennie had left forgotten and began flipping through it casually, like we weren't standing in the middle of a warzone that had been decades in the making.

"You always get this serious when you're trying to act unimpressed," Felix said with that familiar teasing edge in his voice, breaking the tension, but not in the way I needed.

Jennie scoffed, not even looking up from the pages in front of her. "Maybe I am unimpressed."

Felix leaned in, that playful smirk creeping across his lips. He slid his arm around her waist, tugging her closer like it was the most natural thing in the world. His voice dropped low, teasing. "That so?"

Jennie didn't flinch. She rolled her eyes but didn't move away either, clearly used to this dynamic. "That look might work on someone who didn't already know all your dumb tricks."

He leaned in, his breath brushing against her ear. "You love all my dumb tricks."

"I tolerate them. With grace."

And then. She kissed him. Just once. Quick, sharp. But not small.

"Ugh," I groaned, clearing my throat loudly. "I am still in the room, you know."

Felix didn't flinch. He didn't even look guilty. "Don't get jealous, Jean. He'll remember you soon enough."

I shot him a look so dry it could've started a wildfire. "Jealous? Please. If I wanted attention, I'd set something on fire."

Jennie, amused, turned to me. "You did set something on fire."

"Twice," Felix added, grinning. "Science lab and Kieran's hoodie."

I shrugged, unable to suppress the smirk pulling at my lips. "In my defense, the science lab had it coming. The hoodie was just… an accident with personality."

We all laughed — too loudly, for too long, given the heaviness that clung to us.

But the laughter didn't last. The quiet returned quickly, almost suffocating.

I looked down at the open book again, my fingers brushing the pages like I was afraid to disturb the weight of it.

Memory will follow love. Love will protect memory.

For once, I wasn't afraid of what I had to do. I wasn't afraid of the pain that would come from showing Kieran the truth, from dragging him through the wreckage of what we'd lost, from trying to make him remember what had been ripped from him.

But I was afraid of doing it too late. Of waiting until everything was ruined, until he had forgotten us all so completely that no love could bring him back.

I was afraid of losing him for good. And there was no coming back from that.

Jennie's voice pulled me out of my thoughts.

"We're not telling him. Not yet."

I blinked. "What?"

She looked at me with a quiet kind of certainty. "We don't dump the truth on him. He's not ready. We need to ease him into this — into us."

Felix made a noise like he was about to argue, but Jennie kept going.

"We make him remember… not with facts, not with pressure. With you."

She stepped toward me, tone unwavering. "Jean, he loved you. Deeply. Before the accident, you were his anchor."

The words hit harder than I wanted to admit.

"You're going to make him fall for you again," Jennie said. "We'll build it back — not because we're forcing it, but because it's already there. Underneath everything he's forgotten, that love is still waiting."

I swallowed. "And then?"

"Then," she said, "when he's close again — when he trusts you — then we tell him the truth."

Felix leaned against the bookshelf, crossing his arms. "Sounds like emotional bait-and-switch."

Jennie ignored him. "Tomorrow," she said, looking back at me, "you take him to the place you two always went. If anything's still buried in his heart, it'll wake up there. And then, he'll remember everything, but slowly."

I nodded, though the weight of her words sat heavy in my chest. I wasn't sure if I was ready. I wasn't sure if he was either. But time wasn't waiting, and neither was the past.

The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was expectant. Like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for history to repeat — or finally break free.

I closed the book.

Tomorrow, I would try. Not because I believed in fate, but because I believed in him.

And maybe, just maybe, he'd believe in me too.