The air in the subway tunnels was thick with the smell of old paper and forgotten dreams. We moved slowly, our only light being the dim glow from the screen of my device. Every drip of water from the ceiling sounded like a heartbeat in the heavy silence. Omar walked in front of me, his hand shielding me from the shadows, but I could tell even he was feeling the weight of the dark. Sarah, look at this, he whispered, stopping in front of a small, rusted metal door that led into a side room.
Inside, it wasn't a control room or a machine shop. It was a small, dusty library. Thousands of books lined the walls, their covers faded but their contents preserved by the lack of sunlight. In the center of the room, there was a small wooden desk with a framed photograph on it. I picked it up, wiping away the thick layer of dust. It was a picture of a woman sitting in a garden, holding a small child. The woman had the same eyes as me—the same curve of the jaw and the same look of quiet strength. Behind the ear of the child in the photo, there was a tiny, familiar scar.
My breath caught in my throat. This wasn't a lab, Omar. This was a home, I whispered, showing him the picture. Omar took it from my hand, his eyes widening as he looked at the woman and then back at me. They didn't just create you, Sarah. You were born. You were loved. The station... they took you from here. I felt a sudden rush of heat in my chest, a feeling of belonging that I had never known before. I wasn't just a project. I was a daughter. I was a person with a history that existed before the drones and the steel. I tucked the photograph into my pocket, feeling a new kind of fire burning inside me. We are not just going to the station to ask for answers anymore, Omar. We are going there to take back what they stole from us.