Page 30 of Echoes of Us

A shley's old bedroom still smelled like lavender and fabric softener, a scent combination that had defined her childhood.

The walls remained the same shade of pale pink she'd chosen at fourteen, though framed art prints had long since replaced the boy band posters.

Her mother had left everything else exactly as it was - the small desk by the window where she'd spent countless hours studying, the overstuffed armchair where she used to read, and even the string lights still wrapped around her headboard.

It felt like walking into a museum of someone else's life.

She'd been avoiding coming home all summer, making excuses about research and lab work.

The truth was, she didn't know how to be here anymore.

Every family photo on the walls felt like a lie - moments she remembered differently, holidays that hadn't happened the same way, smiles captured in another timeline.

The afternoon sun slanted through her bedroom window, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor.

From downstairs came the familiar sounds of her mother cooking - pots clanking, the radio playing softly, the rhythmic chopping that meant fresh herbs for whatever she was making.

Her father's voice drifted up occasionally, probably on one of his endless work calls.

Ashley sat on her bed, running her fingers over the patchwork quilt her mother had made. In her timeline, this quilt had been a wedding gift. Here, it was just another piece of her childhood bedroom, waiting for a future that might never happen now.

"Ash?" Her mother's voice called up the stairs. "Dinner's almost ready!"

"Coming!" she called back but didn't move.

How do you sit across from your parents and pretend everything is normal when you know their future–a future that might not even happen anymore? How do you look at your father and see both the man who raised you and the man who almost walked away?

Since confiding in Dale, speaking her truth for the first time, Ashley couldn’t stop revisiting those memories, questioning every decision she had ever made, and whether it had been shaped by this knowledge.

The scent of her mother's lasagna wafted up the stairs - her comfort food specialty, the one she always made when she thought Ashley needed cheering up. Some things, at least, stayed the same across timelines.

Taking a deep breath, Ashley stood. She straightened her sundress - the soft blue one she'd chosen carefully this morning, wanting to look like the daughter they remembered. Like the Ashley who belonged in this version of their lives.

Time to face her parents. Time to pretend she didn't see the gaps in their photo albums, the careful way they navigated certain topics, the love that had been broken and rebuilt into something different but somehow stronger.

Time to learn how two people choose to stay, even when the future isn't what they thought it would be.

The dining room table was set with the everyday plates, not the fancy ones her mother saved for holidays. Her father had already claimed his usual seat at the head of the table, his phone finally set aside, while her mother arranged a bowl of salad just so.

"There she is," her father smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "The prodigal physicist returns."

"I'm not actually studying physics, Dad." Ashley slid into her chair, the familiar wood creaking slightly. "I just work in the lab."

"With that nice Westwood boy," her mother added, passing the garlic bread. "Dale, wasn't it? The one you mentioned last time?"

Ashley's fingers tightened on her napkin. "Yeah. Dale."

"Your mother says he's some kind of genius." Her father served himself lasagna, and the movement was practiced and easy. "Though if he's got you interested in physics, he must be doing something right."

"Thomas," her mother chided gently. The exchange was so natural, so practiced - the kind of comfortable banter built over decades. Looking at them now, you'd never know there had been a time when they'd barely spoken over dinner.

"The whole department's brilliant," Ashley said, focusing on spreading butter on her bread. "Dale's just... patient. Good at explaining things."

"Like your father with his students," her mother said, that familiar note of pride in her voice.

"How's the garden coming along?" Ashley asked, desperate to shift the conversation. "Those new roses look beautiful."

"Ah, you noticed!" Her father brightened. "Finally figured out the soil composition they need. Though your mother's the one with the real green thumb."

"I just water them," her mother demurred, but her smile was genuine. "Your father's the one who spent hours researching different varieties."

Ashley watched them share a look across the table - soft, knowing, built on something deeper than their old wounds. Whatever had broken between them had healed into this: quiet pride in each other's small victories, gentle teasing, and a love that chose to stay.

"Actually," she found herself saying, "I've been meaning to ask you both something."

Her mother's hands stilled on her wine glass. "Of course, sweetheart."

"How do you..." Ashley swallowed hard, pushing her food around her plate. "How do you know when something's worth fixing? When it's broken, but maybe not... irreparably?"

The silence that followed felt heavy. Her father set down his fork, and for a moment, she saw him clearly - not just as her dad, but as a man who had once faced an impossible choice.

"Sometimes," he said carefully, "the breaking isn't the important part. It's what you choose to build from the pieces."

Her mother's hand found his on the table, an unconscious gesture Ashley had seen a thousand times but never really understood until now. "And sometimes," her mother added softly, "what you build ends up stronger than what you started with."

Ashley stared at their joined hands. "But how do you know? If it's worth the risk?"

"Oh, sweetheart." Her mother's voice held years of hard-won wisdom. "You don't. That's what makes it a choice worth making."

* * *

The email arrived on a Thursday afternoon, its aftermath rippling through the physics department like a stone dropped in still water.

Ashley heard about it first as whispers between Professor Chen and Dr. Thompson outside the lab - fragments about Cole Westwood and a strongly-worded response to concerns about his readiness for the master's program.

"Fourteen pages," Dr. Thompson muttered, shaking his head. "Complete with annotated research proposals and letters of recommendation."

"Well," Professor Chen's lips twitched. "No one can say the boy lacks motivation when properly challenged."

Ashley kept her head down, pretending to focus on the data sheets spread across her workstation. Across the lab, Dale's hands stilled over his equipment, his back straightening almost imperceptibly.

The professors moved on, their voices fading down the hallway, but the tension in the lab remained. Ashley could feel Dale's eyes on her, studying her with that careful perception she'd come to know so well.

"Interesting," he said finally, his voice carrying across the quiet lab. "I hadn't heard the department had concerns about Cole's readiness."

Heat crept up her neck. "Really?"

"Really." He set down his tools with precise movements. "Especially since his internship in Geneva has been exceptional. Almost like..." He turned to face her fully, and she caught the moment understanding dawned in his eyes. "Almost like someone wanted him to prove himself."

Ashley's fingers found the edge of her data sheets, twisting the paper. "Dale-"

"You did this." It wasn't a question. "You found a way to bring him back."

"I just talked to Ezra," she said quietly. "The rest was..." She gestured vaguely at the email printout on Professor Chen's abandoned desk. "Well, pure Cole."

Dale crossed the lab slowly, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Ashley thought he might be angry - she had manipulated his brother, after all. But when he reached her workstation, his smile was soft, genuine in a way she hadn't seen in weeks.

"Thank you," he said simply.

Those two words broke something between them - some final barrier of hurt and misunderstanding that had lingered since that night at his apartment. Ashley felt tears prick her eyes.

"I didn't do it for-"

"I know." He leaned against her desk, closer than he'd allowed himself since everything fell apart. "That's why it matters."

After that, something shifted. The awkward silences that had plagued their lab work dissolved into comfortable conversation.

Dale started bringing her coffee again in the mornings - not out of obligation or lingering feelings, but simple friendship.

She found herself staying late to help with his experiments, enjoying his quiet company and steady presence.

"You two seem better," Sarah commented one evening, watching Dale explain a complex equation to Eddie across the lab. "Less tragic romance, more actual friends."

Ashley smiled, surprised to find it genuine. "We are."

The last weeks of summer fell into an easy rhythm.

Lunch breaks were spent sprawled on the physics building lawn, Sarah and Eddie bickering good-naturedly about quantum theory while Lisa rolled her eyes and Dale played mediator.

Weekend gatherings at the local pub, where Ashley discovered Dale's hidden talent for terrible science puns and his complete inability to play pool.

One particularly warm night, they all ended up at Dale's apartment, takeout containers scattered across his coffee table as they argued about parallel universes.

"But theoretically," Eddie insisted, gesturing with his chopsticks, "if every decision creates a new timeline-"

"Then somewhere, there's a universe where you actually understand what you're talking about?" Sarah dodged the fortune cookie he threw at her, laughing.

Ashley caught Dale's eye across the room and saw her own amusement mirrored there. It felt good, she realized. This easy friendship, this sense of belonging. No pressure, no expectations - just genuine connection.

"Speaking of parallel universes," Lisa said later, helping Ashley gather empty containers, "have you heard? Cole's coming back for the semester."

Ashley's hands stilled on a takeout box. Across the room, Dale's conversation with Eddie paused briefly before resuming.

"Yeah," she managed. "I heard."

The news should have felt like a victory. The plan had worked - Cole was coming home, back to where he needed to be. But as August crept toward September, another thought began to gnaw at her edges, keeping her awake at night.

September 6th. One year. She had one year before the car accident that would end Dale's life.

Cole had never wanted to talk about the details and had closed off completely whenever she'd tried to ask.

Now, watching Dale alive and laughing across the room, the weight of that knowledge pressed against her chest until she could barely breathe.

This timeline had already shifted so dramatically from the one she knew.

Cole in Geneva, their confrontation at the party, her friendship with Dale - none of it had happened in her original life.

She couldn't help but wonder: had those changes rippled forward?

Would the accident still happen, or had she already inadvertently changed that too?

The butterfly effect, Ezra had mentioned it. One small change created storms she couldn't predict. She'd been so focused on getting Cole back, on fixing what she'd broken between them, she hadn't really thought about what it meant to carry this kind of responsibility.

How do you save someone when you don't even know what you're saving them from?