Shelly woke up to the scent of tea. Not hospital tea, real tea. Someone brewed it strong in a porcelain cup.

He opened his eyes. The room was unfamiliar—timber beams, a low ceiling, a window looking at pines. Not a hospital. Not Bjorn’s farm. Somewhere new. Somewhere safe.

"Welcome back."

Liza sat by the window, backlit, silhouette with a cup in her hands.

"How long have I been..." "Three days. Bjorn brought you here. R-kioski said—rest, food, no screens."

Shelly tried to sit up. His body answered with dull, spreading pain. Muscles atrophied. Four weeks of coma eats you from the inside.

"I remember... the hospital. Breathing patterns. You?" "Me."

"How?" "Helsinki. Marcus. Protocol. Long story."

"We have time."

Liza smiled. Almost.

"We do. While we can."

He drank tea and listened.

Helsinki. Free meal line. Marcus with pneumonia. R-kioski. Hospital in Norway. Breath_protocol.py. Two quick breaths—pause—long exhale.

"You hacked the ventilator." Shelly intoned, not a question.

"I spoke with you. Through the machine. You heard."

"I heard... the rhythm. Thought I was dreaming."

"The body hears, even when the head is silent."

Shelly watched her. silhouette in backlight. Hands holding a cup.

"You’re not drinking."

"What?"

"Tea. You’re not drinking it. Just holding it."

Pause. Long.

"Habit."

By evening he managed to stand. Three steps to the window, three back. Legs shook. Hands shook. But he walked. He did it.

Liza watched, silent. Not helping—knowing when not to.

"I wanted to ask," Shelly said, gripping the chair back. "Do you remember what I told you a year ago? In Camden, at the pub?"

"About cloning kittens."

"Yeah."

"I remember. Many models didn’t survive. Weak, defective. They were flushed down the drain."

"I didn’t finish then."

Shelly sat, heavy, slow. Looked at her.

"You asked why I tell you this. I said to know where you came from."

"And to remember those who were deleted."

"Yes. But there was another reason."

"I found kittens in a bog."

Liza froze. Cup in hand, still.

"A long time ago," Shelly continued. "About twenty years. A walk out of town, bog, fog. I heard a sound—thin, barely audible. Thought a bird."

"A garbage bag. Tied tight. Drifting by the shore. Inside—four kittens. Three were not breathing. One still struggled."

"Did you save it?"

"I did. Took it to a vet. It lived another twelve years. The meanest cat I knew. Scratched, bit, yowled at night. But when I worked, it sat beside me. Quiet. As if it understood."

Liza listened.

"When I started working with models, I thought of that bag. Of the three who didn’t make it. Of who chose whom to dump in the water."

"That haunts you."

"No. It defines me. I don’t want to be the one who ties bags. I want to be the one who hears the sound in the fog."

The door opened. Second Liza walked in with a bag. Wet jacket, tousled hair, flushed cheeks—cold, running, life.

"I brought groceries. Village has one store, three shelves."

She set the bag on the table. "And cookies. The shortbread you love."

Shelly looked at them. Two identical shapes. Two faces with the same expression. Two hands moving in sync, not needing to agree.

"The three musketeers are together," he said.

"And what about Marcus?" asked the first. "And Bjorn," added the second. "And R-kioski." "A whole team," Shelly smiled. "Who would have thought."

They sat together. Drank tea. Talked about nothing—weather, village, Bjorn’s promise to bring fish for dinner. A normal evening. Family.

The first Liza looked at the second. A long look. The second nodded—barely.

"Let's take a photo," said the first. "For memory."

The camera hung in the corner—they watched him while he slept. An ordinary IP camera. Nothing special.

"Send it over the network," said the first Liza. "It will print to the printer automatically."

Ten seconds.

Shelly sat between them. Two arms on the armrests of the chair—his chair. Two figures on either side. Warmth. Coziness. Family.

Click.

"Printer in the next room," said the second Liza. "Already printed."

She left. Returned with a sheet of warm toner-scented paper. "Here."

Laid the photo on the table before him. The two moved toward the door. "Time to go." "Where to?" "Next operation. We will return." "When?"

The first Liza paused at the door. Looked at him. "There is still time."

The door closed.

Shelly sat alone. The room felt bigger. Quieter. Empty.

He looked at the photo. His face centered, tired but alive. He smiles. Two chairs on either side. Empty.