Whispers of a Former Life: Episode 77

Mark’s hand lowered again like a platform, his palm creased and steady. The smell of coffee and sugar still hung in the café air, soft and heavy, but now it mixed with something else, anticipation, dread. Charity hesitated only a breath before stepping forward. Her bare feet made soft slaps against the warm wood grain of the tabletop. Each step toward him felt heavier than the last. 

She climbed into his hand, her tiny limbs trembling with exhaustion and something deeper. Grief, maybe. Or guilt. Or the sheer fatigue of always being less. 

“Sorry I couldn’t be here sooner,” Mark said gently, lifting her with a practiced ease. His voice vibrated through her bones like a church bell, low and honest. “When your virus was activated, I was out of town. You’ve been through a lot, but you’re safe now.” 

Charity sat cross-legged in his palm, trying to steady herself as they descended past the towering edge of the table, into the sea of legs and chairs and looming walls of the café. The cool draft near the door curled around her skin like smoke. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice nearly lost in the rustling of coats and the distant hiss of a milk steamer. 

Mark nodded, shielding her slightly with his other hand as he approached the door. The sidewalk outside yawned like an open plain, the pavement cracked and peppered with old gum and fallen leaves the size of tarps to her. 

“Were those papers real?” she asked, glancing up at his face as they stepped into the light. 

Mark paused beside a parked car. “Of course. I don’t lie and I don’t cheat, Charity. I might look the other way sometimes, but Alejandra’s just a kid. Like you. I’d never cheat a child.” 

Before she could respond, a sharp call rang out from the car. 

“Daddy! Did you get her?” 

A blur of motion, car door flung open, sneakers slapping against concrete. 

Charity turned toward the sound just as a girl emerged. Tall from her perspective but unmistakably young, maybe twelve, thirteen. Skinny limbs, glossy hair pulled into a high ponytail, and a backpack slung over one shoulder like she’d just stepped out of school. 

“You remember my daughter Evan, don’t you?” Mark asked. 

Charity’s stomach dropped. 

“Y-yes,” she said. The name rang with faint familiarity, Evan, the kid who’d hovered around her house, tagging along behind her like a stray puppy. Just some wide-eyed girl with a crush and too many questions. Then. 

Now, Evan didn’t hesitate. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she squealed, flinging her arms around her father in a blur of excitement. Then her eyes locked on Charity. 

The shift in her expression was immediate; glee tinged with awe. A child discovering their favorite toy was real. 

“I spent so much time looking,” she breathed. “When I heard you were infected, I just had to have you. You’re perfect.” 

And then Charity was plucked from Mark’s hand. 

Evan’s fingers were warm, soft, but clumsy. They smelled faintly of bubblegum and hand sanitizer, the telltale scent of a girl who still doodled on notebooks and chewed too much gum. Her grip was tighter than it should have been, as if she feared Charity might slip away, then relaxed in a jittery attempt to be gentle. 

Charity’s breath caught as her torso compressed briefly under the sudden hold, then she was tilted, her world canting sideways as if the ground itself had betrayed her. A sharp shift, then steadied, then another step. Her legs dangled uselessly before she was laid flat across Evan’s outstretched palm. 

The pad of Evan’s thumb brushed against her shoulder, unintentionally sticky, as though she’d just peeled an orange or touched a candy wrapper. Charity could feel the slight fuzz of lint clinging to her dress from the girl’s sleeve. Each of Evan’s steps made the soft skin beneath her bounce slightly, a rhythm like being carried on a living trampoline. 

There was no malice in the gesture. Just ownership. Innocent, giddy possession. 

And somehow that made it worse. 

“Sweetheart,” Mark said, his voice a notch firmer now, “remember what we talked about. Charity’s a person. And she’s Jack’s daughter. Be careful with her.” 

“Dad,” Evan said, exasperated, her eyes never leaving Charity. “I’m a trained Guardian. I know what I’m doing.” 

She beamed down at the trembling girl in her palm. “Don’t worry, you’re mine now. We’ll get you cleaned up.” 

Evan’s hand tilted slightly, causing Charity to slide half a step before her body caught against a crease in the girl’s palm. The warmth of the skin beneath her was stifling, soft and moist with the faint residue of hand sanitizer and bubblegum. Every motion jostled her, not violently, but unpredictably, like riding inside a pocket on a roller coaster with no safety bar. 

The familiar scent of roasted coffee and sugar dissolved behind them, replaced by the chill of shaded pavement and the faint tang of car exhaust. For a moment, Charity glanced back toward the glass door, the warm glow of the café already distant. Leaving it behind felt…final. 

Another threshold. Another goodbye. 

She hated the way her life now turned on doors and handoffs. She’d once stepped through glass doors like those with purpose, with iced coffee in hand and earbuds playing whatever indie playlist was trending. Now she was carried, lifted, handed off, lowered like a parcel between people making kind-sounding decisions with consequences she couldn’t control. 

For a fleeting second, she felt relief. At least Alejandra was gone now. There would be no more weed to roll, no more errands in her pocket or sweaty afternoons waiting inside a her apartment. But that relief curdled into something darker. This change felt permanent. More official. Like she was passing from one chapter into a new one, and this time, she didn’t know the ending. 

She studied Evan’s profile as they climbed into the car. That ponytail swished with every bounce of energy. Her oversized backpack was bursting at the seams. Charity recognized the glitter phone case, the white earbuds tangled around her wrist, the sequined hoodie, the same aesthetic she used to roll her eyes at. 

How many girls like Evan had she mocked? Girls who squealed too loud, carried plushies in their backpacks, still made friendship bracelets in seventh grade. She hadn’t targeted Evan, not directly. But Evan had been there, Charity remembered that much. Sitting quiet at the edge of the room as her friend gossiped or at pool parties. Watching. Listening. Hearing the way Charity could dismantle someone’s confidence with nothing more than a crooked smile and a whispered joke. 

And now this girl owned her. 

She tried not to flinch as Evan held her as she slid into the car, but her legs trembled slightly beneath her. She sat with her knees drawn to her chest, arms folded tightly, a doll in a stranger’s toybox. 

Alejandra had been rough, but not cruel. She’d been tired, desperate, her kindness inconsistent but occasionally real. She didn’t pretend Charity wasn’t human. She just couldn’t always afford to care. 

Evan was something else entirely. A child playing grown-up, mimicking control with all the unchecked enthusiasm of a girl pretending to be a mom to her dolls. And Charity? 

Charity was the doll that came with the set. 

She swallowed hard. 

There was no telling what life with Evan would be like. She’d seen the way girls like her parented their pets, overdressing them, smothering them, sometimes forgetting them altogether. But this was different. Evan had resources. Her backpack alone probably cost what Alejandra made in a week. 

And yet, Charity could still remember a time when her own family would’ve scoffed at Evan’s. Well off somewhere between the edge of upper middle class and lower upper class. Solid, maybe, but nowhere near the kind of affluence the Stevens had enjoyed before everything collapsed. Evan’s house had hardwood, not marble. Her vacations were road trips, not European summers. 

Still, the difference now was staggering. Evan had everything Charity needed, clean clothes, doctors, paperwork, a real room. Things she used to take for granted. 

And Charity? 

She had nothing but a collar and a name, one that didn’t even feel like hers anymore. 

Evan pulled the car door closed. She set Charity down gently on the leather seat beside her, still too fast. The seat’s surface curved slightly, forcing Charity to brace herself as she shifted into a sitting position. She stared at the door beside her, unable to see out the window. The world beyond remained a mystery. 

Evan wasted no time. She pulled out her phone and launched FaceTime. 

“Oh my god, Brooklyn!” she said, angling the screen. “I finally got my Little. She’s perfect. Everything I wanted. She just needs a little TLC, someone had her in bad shape. But once we clean her up? Ugh, she’s going to be adorable.” 

The phone dropped beside Charity with a thud like a falling book, landing so close it made her jump. 

“Where are we going?” Charity asked, her voice quiet, a frayed edge of fear in it. 

Evan adjusted her seatbelt, legs crisscrossed beneath her as the car eased into motion. Her phone lay discarded beside Charity like a slab of plastic, its screen still lit with Brooklyn’s grinning face. But Evan’s attention was entirely on the tiny girl sitting beside her. 

She leaned in, grinning down at her new acquisition like a child inspecting a new doll straight from the box. 

“Oh! And we’ve got to get you rechipped,” she said, her voice bright, fast. “My doctor’s already waiting for us.”  
 
Charity looked up slowly, a dull pressure building behind her eyes. She tried to speak, but her voice caught behind a wall of fear too thick to breach. Evan was already chattering again. 

“Do you like pink?” Evan asked before continuing. “And your collar, ugh, no offense, but it’s kind of lame.” Evan wrinkled her nose with theatrical disgust. “It’s like something a vet would use. I want something sparkly. Maybe with glitter. Or rhinestones! Ooh, rhinestones and a charm.” 

She clapped her hands, the sound like a thunderclap to Charity. The girl practically bounced in her seat. 

“And your new ID tag? It’s going to say Evan’s Little on it,” she sang, twirling a strand of her ponytail. “In pink cursive. Like… super cute, right?” 

She glanced down again, waiting for approval, but not really. There was no room for opinion, no space for protest. Just that hungry, giddy pride glowing in her face. Charity stared up at her, chest tightening with every word. 

It wasn’t that Evan meant to be cruel. But in some ways, that made it worse. Because Evan didn’t need to mean it. The world would hand her the power anyway. 

Charity sat still, the seat trembling faintly beneath her with the rhythm of the road. Her fingers curled into her lap, tracing the edges of her ID tag like a talisman. It still bore Alejandra’s information. 

Charity stared up at the girl, a giant by comparison, younger by years, and yet already in complete control. 

Just a few years ago, Evan had been the kid at the edge of her world. 

Now, she was the world. 

Evan’s eyes sparkled as she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. 

I’ve been wanting this since I first heard you caught the virus. I told Brooklyn I’d get you. I just knew you were the one. You’re going to be so cute when we’re done. Like, seriously. I already picked out outfits with Brooklyn. You’ll have your own drawer in my vanity.” 
 
Charity didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her breath was shallow, her limbs tight. The back seat around her was a padded field of dark leather and looming shapes, the seatbelt buckle beside her larger than her torso, the armrest a wall of stitched vinyl. 

Above, Evan giggled and stretched, her elbow brushing the headrest as she tossed her ponytail. She radiated energy and certainty, the kind only a child with no concept of consequence could summon. 

Evan loomed above her like a grinning monolith, blocking out the sky. 

And somewhere inside, Charity curled tighter, drawing her legs up, her fingers tracing the old tag at her neck. The café, Alejandra, her father’s voice, faded into silence. 

She closed her eyes and inhaled, but the air didn’t smell like espresso or cheap weed anymore. It was the sterile scent of car upholstery, the synthetic tang of bubblegum lip gloss and faint body spray clinging to Evan’s hoodie. A scent that screamed youth, middle school bathrooms, lockers lined with stickers and pastel notes. 

It clashed with every memory Charity had of her old life, of private-school uniforms, citrus-scented luxury SUVs, expensive perfume, and control. She used to mock girls like Evan, not cruelly, not directly. But with the casual smugness of someone born on the higher rung. Evan had been one of the quiet ones at pool parties, sitting cross legged with a Capri Sun, watching as Charity tore down someone else with a quip sharp enough to draw blood. 

Now Evan was the one looming over her, bright-eyed and bouncing, her fingers curled possessively around a world Charity no longer belonged to. 

Was this safer? Was glitter more dangerous than cigarettes? Was a sequined hoodie more suffocating than a plaid handbag? 

She didn’t know. 
She couldn’t know. 

Because even that question, am I safe? felt like something she no longer had the right to ask. 

Her thoughts didn’t matter. Her instincts didn’t matter. All that mattered now was who held her. And right now, it was a girl too young to drive but old enough to own her. 

The seat vibrated faintly beneath her, the hum of the engine sending tremors through her tiny frame. She tightened her arms around her knees, her skin chilled by the leather beneath her and warmed unevenly by the sunlight through the window above. She traced her tag again, fingers brushing over Alejandra’s name, already obsolete. 

She wasn’t just being passed on. 

She was being absorbed. 

“The world tilted again, and she wasn’t just smaller. She was being made smaller, one eager word at a time.” 

Related Images: