Page 24 of Evermore
His relationship with Maya was different too—closer, less fraught with unresolved trauma from their mother's death. They worked together more as a team, supporting each other through their mother's illness instead of Maya carrying most of the burden while Finn struggled with guilt and helplessness.
And River. In this version of reality, they'd met under completely different circumstances.
Finn had been volunteering for marine conservation efforts, had encountered River during a research expedition rather than stumbling into his life during a personal crisis.
Their relationship had developed slowly over months of shared environmental work, built on common interests and mutual respect rather than Finn's desperate need for stability.
They were together in this reality, but their connection felt fundamentally different—more balanced, less intense, developed through normal relationship progression rather than crisis bonding.
River wasn't trying to fix Finn's medical problems because Finn didn't have medical problems. Instead, they were equal partners working toward shared goals, supporting each other's professional development and personal growth.
“The reef restoration data looks promising,” River said, appearing in the workshop doorway with enthusiasm that felt familiar but focused on different concerns than Finn was used to. “The kelp transplantation is showing better survival rates than we projected.”
Finn heard himself responding with detailed knowledge about marine biology that he'd apparently developed through years of conservation work. The conversation flowed naturally, both of them contributing expertise and insights, neither carrying the weight of medical crises or neurological symptoms.
But even as Finn experienced this alternate reality with full sensory detail and emotional engagement, part of his consciousness remained aware that it wasn't real.
He could feel the episode happening, could sense the temporal displacement that was allowing him to access experiences that belonged to a different version of his life.
The strange thing was how appealing this alternate reality felt.
In this version of his life, he wasn't struggling with mysterious neurological symptoms or depending on someone he barely knew for emotional stability.
His relationships were healthier, his professional life was thriving, and his future felt hopeful instead of terrifying.
But it also felt less intense, less vital than the reality he actually inhabited.
The love between him and River in this alternate timeline was genuine but not desperate, comfortable but not transcendent.
They cared about each other deeply, but without the fierce protectiveness and consuming need that characterized their actual relationship.
The episode lasted what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, giving Finn extensive access to experiences and memories that belonged to this other version of his life.
He attended their mother's birthday party at the care facility, watched Maya graduate from her doctoral program without the stress of managing family medical crises, celebrated professional achievements with River that felt satisfying but not life-changing.
When reality snapped back into focus, Finn found himself sitting on his workshop floor with tears streaming down his face and a bone-deep sense of loss that felt like grieving for someone who'd died.
The experiences he'd just lived through had felt completely real, more vivid and detailed than normal memories, but they were gone now, leaving only echoes and the devastating awareness of how different his life could have been.
River found him twenty minutes later, having rushed over after Finn failed to answer repeated phone calls. He burst through the workshop door like a man expecting to find disaster, his face cycling through relief and alarm when he saw Finn sitting on the floor with obvious signs of distress.
“Jesus, Finn, what happened?” River dropped to his knees beside Finn, hands moving over him with gentle urgency, checking for injury or signs of physical distress. “I've been calling for an hour.”
“Episode,” Finn managed, his voice hoarse from crying over experiences that hadn't actually happened but felt more real than most of his actual memories. “Really long one. Really intense. I think I was gone for... how long was I gone?”
“Your last text was around noon, and it's almost three now.” River helped Finn move to his workstation chair, noting the way his hands shook and his coordination seemed impaired. “What did you experience?”
Finn tried to explain what he'd seen and felt during the displacement, but the words felt inadequate for the scope of what he'd experienced.
How could he describe an entire alternate life that had felt completely real but couldn't have happened?
How could he articulate the profound sense of loss for experiences that had never occurred?
“It was like living a completely different version of my life,” Finn said finally.
“Same people, same basic circumstances, but everything was different. Mom was still alive and recovering, Maya and I had a better relationship, we met under completely different circumstances and developed our relationship slowly over months instead of weeks.”
River's expression was carefully controlled, but Finn caught flickers of something that might have been recognition, as if the described alternate reality resonated with him in ways that should have been impossible.
“The details you're describing,” River said slowly, “do they feel like memories or like dreams?”
“Like memories. Like things that really happened, even though I know they couldn't have.” Finn wiped his eyes with shaking hands.
“River, what if my episodes aren't just neurological dysfunction?
What if I'm somehow accessing alternate versions of my life? Different timelines where things happened differently?”
The suggestion sounded insane even as Finn voiced it, but River didn't immediately dismiss the possibility.
Instead, he looked thoughtful in the way that suggested his scientific mind was processing information that challenged conventional understanding while also trying to find rational explanations for impossible experiences.
“That would explain some of the knowledge you've demonstrated,” River said carefully. “Details about my life that you shouldn't know, familiarity with places and experiences you've never had in this reality.”
“It would also mean I'm completely losing my grip on what's real and what isn't.”
“Or it would mean reality is more complex than we understand.” River helped Finn stand, noting how unsteady he remained. “But right now, what matters is that these episodes are getting more severe and lasting longer. We need better medical intervention.”
Finn wanted to argue, but the devastating aftermath of the episode had left him feeling fragile in ways that made independence seem less important than safety. Maybe Maya was right about needing more structured support. Maybe he was beyond the point where he could manage his condition alone.
“I'm scared, River,” Finn admitted. “Not just about the episodes, but about what they mean for us. What if the version of our relationship I experienced during the episode is more real than what we have? What if this intense, desperate love is just a symptom of my condition rather than something genuine?”
“Then we deal with whatever comes,” River said with quiet determination that felt like an anchor in stormy waters. “But we don't borrow trouble from possibilities that might not happen.”
The next morning brought Mrs. Pemberton, arriving at precisely nine AM with the kind of expectant smile that made Finn's chest tight with dread.
She moved through the bookshop with the careful steps of someone who valued every object around her, her elderly hands gentle on the spines of books as she made her way to his workshop.
“I'm so sorry to bother you, dear,” she said, settling into the chair across from his workstation with obvious excitement.
“But I was wondering if you might have any updates on my husband's journal?
I know we discussed it being a challenging restoration, but I've been thinking about it so much lately.”
Finn stared at her blankly, panic rising in his chest as he tried to summon any memory of her husband, her journal, or any conversation they might have had about restoration work. “Mrs. Pemberton, I'm so sorry, but could you remind me exactly what journal you're referring to?”
Her face fell slightly, disappointment mixing with concern. “Harold's maritime journal from his merchant marine days. I brought it to you about three weeks ago after the basement flooding damaged so many of our family papers.”
She reached into her handbag and pulled out a photograph showing water-damaged pages covered in faded handwriting, the kind of personal historical document that represented irreplaceable family memories.
“You said you thought you could save most of the text, that it would take time but the damage wasn't as extensive as I'd feared.”
Finn nodded and smiled while internally screaming, having no memory of this conversation or any record of receiving such an important family document.
The photograph showed exactly the kind of challenging restoration work he specialized in, but he had no recollection of agreeing to take on the project.
“I've been having some organizational issues with my current projects,” Finn said, hoping his voice sounded more confident than he felt. “Could I check my records and get back to you with a proper status update?”
Mrs. Pemberton's expression shifted from enthusiasm to worry. “Of course, dear. But Finn, are you feeling alright? You seem different than when we spoke before. More... distant.”