Chapter Text
1960.
Eleanor Brenner was used to going to the lab.
She often spent hours there with her papa as he worked. Sometimes she was left alone in his office, spinning idly in his chair as he did whatever it was that he did. She knew it was important. Every grown-up in the lab acted like her papa was important.
They never paid her any mind, and she always came away from that place feeling sadder than when she had arrived.
On this particular day, nothing out of the ordinary happened.
Until it did.
Papa got an urgent call.
That, in itself, was not unusual - her father was always receiving calls at all hours of the day, and Eleanor had learnt to live with that. But this call had papa standing up instantly, one hand still pressed to the receiver as he began to pace.
Papa only paced when something really bad had happened.
And when work took over, Martin Brenner did what he always did.
He made phone calls.
Eleanor's usual babysitter - Claire - was unavailable, and when he went to knock at both neighbours' houses, no one was in.
That left him with a problem.
Eleanor.
"We're going to the lab." Papa said at last. His voice was calm again, careful. "You know what that means?"
"Yes, papa." Eleanor replied.
And she did.
It meant she had to be quiet. Almost invisible. She wasn't to speak unless spoken to, and she had to listen - really listen - and do exactly what papa said.
When they arrived at the lab, the first thing Eleanor noticed about the place was how quiet it was.
It was never the peaceful kind of quiet that settled in at bedtime or during snow days. This quiet pressed against your ears. It was the kind that made your footsteps sound too loud, even when you tried to walk carefully.
Her shoes squeaked faintly against the polished floor as she followed her father down long, never-ending corridors. They made a sharp left, and Eleanor found herself in a part of the lab she had never been in before.
The adults in this section were even quieter than those in the main building. They kept their eyes down as they rushed past, movements quick and purposeful. Eleanor felt a knot of unease settle in her stomach.
Dr. Brenner walked quickly, his lab coat already half unbuttoned, eyes fixed ahead. He'd been distracted since the urgent phone call, his attention caught on invisible things, his thoughts clearly somewhere Eleanor couldn't follow.
She had learnt to recognise that look.
It meant he was busy.
It meant he would forget she was there if she didn't keep up.
"Stay close." He said absently, not turning around.
She nodded anyway.
The building was colder than outside, all pale walls and fluorescent lights that hummed softly overhead. Everything smelled faintly of disinfectant, with something metallic underneath it. Eleanor clutched her cardigan tighter around herself as she walked, her gaze drifting to the doors they passed.
Some were labeled.
Some weren't.
All of them were closed.
"Where are we going?" She eventually asked.
Her father slowed slightly, but didn't stop. "Just somewhere I need to check on. You'll need to sit and wait for me when we arrive."
She nodded again, even though she wasn't thrilled by the idea.
Her father's office was boring. No windows. No books she was allowed to touch. Just files and folders and a chair that was too tall for her legs to reach the floor.
They turned a corner.
A man in a lab coat nodded at her father. Another woman passed them, a clipboard hugged to her chest, eyes flicking briefly towards Eleanor before sliding away again.
No one smiled.
By the time they reached the door at the end of the hall, Eleanor was already restless.
Her father stopped, swiped a card, and pushed the door open. Inside was another corridor, narrower than the last, with observation windows set into the walls at regular intervals. The lights here were dimmer. Softer.
"Wait here." Brenner said, gesturing to a bench along the wall. "Do not go wandering."
"I won't." Eleanor said automatically.
He hesitated, studying her for a moment, then nodded and turned away, already pulling on gloves as he disappeared through another door.
The lock clicked behind him.
Eleanor swung her legs from the bench and waited.
And waited.
The hum of electricity buzzed faintly through the walls. Somewhere far away, something mechanical whirred, then stopped. She counted the ceiling tiles. She traced patterns in the floor with the toe of her shoe. She leaned forwards, then back.
Ten minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
Papa was usually never gone this long.
Her legs began to ache from sitting still. She slid off the bench and stood, stretching her arms over her head. The hallway extended in both directions, empty and quiet. The observation windows along the wall were dark - all except one, further down, which glowed faintly.
She hesitated.
Her father had said not to wander.
But he had also said he'd be right back. And he hadn't been.
Just a peek, she told herself. Just to see what was in there.
She padded down the hallway, steps light, curiosity propelling her forward. The glass window was set high, but she rose onto her toes and peered inside.
The room beyond was large and bare, lit by a single overhead light.
White walls.
A table bolted to the floor.
A chair.
And a boy.
He sat with his hands folded in his lap, back straight, eyes fixed on nothing at all. He looked a few years older than her - maybe thirteen - pale hair falling into his face. He didn't move. Didn't fidget. Didn't even seem to breathe, though she knew he must be.
Eleanor blinked.
She glanced around, half-expecting someone to stop her.
No one did.
Slowly, she knocked on the glass. The sound was soft, barely audible.
The boy didn't react.
She frowned and knocked again, a little louder.
This time, his eyes shifted.
They lifted, slow and wary, and locked onto her reflection in the glass.
Eleanor sucked in a breath.
He was looking right at her.
His gaze was sharp - almost startlingly intense for someone so young - but there was something else there too. Something dull beneath it. He looked tired. He looked the way her mother had when she was ill.
She lifted her hand in a small, hesitant wave.
"Hi." She said, her voice muffled through the glass.
He didn't wave back. He just stared.
Undeterred, Eleanor leaned closer, pressing her palm flat against the window.
"Do you live here?" She asked.
The boy's brow furrowed. His lips parted slightly, as if he wasn't sure how to respond. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, rough around the edges.
"No."
"Oh." She considered that. "Then why are you here?"
He hesitated again. His eyes flicked briefly towards the corner of the room, where a camera blinked red.
Then back to her.
"I don't know." He said. The words came out flat, almost uncertain, as if he hadn't expected to be asked anything at all.
That answer seemed to satisfy her.
She smiled - small and earnest, like she'd been given exactly what she needed. "I'm Eleanor."
He didn't respond.
His gaze flicked briefly past her, to the door, to the corners of the room. Then back again. He said nothing.
She waited.
A beat passed.
Then another.
"You don't have to tell me your name if you don't want to." She added quickly, worried she'd done something wrong. "I just thought that you might want to talk." She gestured vaguely down the corridor behind her. "It's really boring out here."
The boy studied her in silence.
Something shifted in his expression - not fear, not anger, but confusion. A subtle furrow between his brows, as though he couldn't quite understand why she was still standing there. Why she hadn't left. Why she was looking at him like that.
"Why are you talking to me?" He asked at last.
She shrugged, the movement easy, unthinking. "Because you looked lonely."
The word hung between them.
Lonely.
Behind the glass, unseen by her, monitors spiked.
Heart rate: elevated - slowing.
Neural activity: fluctuating wildly - steadier rhythm.
In the observation room, Dr. Brenner froze mid-sentence.
"What is that?" One of the technicians murmured, leaning closer to the screens.
On the monitor, the boy's vitals were stabilising in real time.
"Who's in there with him?" Another asked sharply.
Brenner's blood went cold.
He turned, striding toward the observation glass and saw her.
Eleanor.
Too close.
Too curious.
Too unafraid.
He opened his mouth to shout -
"Wait." The lead scientist said suddenly. "Look."
Brenner stopped.
On the screens, the erratic spikes that had plagued the readings all morning - all year, really - were easing. The chaotic patterns smoothing into something almost…normal.
Inside the room, the boy tilted his head.
Not away.
Towards her.
"Do you like it here?" Eleanor asked him.
He glanced around the room - the walls, the lights, the door. His jaw clenched, just slightly.
"No."
She hummed thoughtfully, mirroring his glance. "I wouldn't either."
He looked at her again, more carefully this time.
"You're not scared." He said.
It wasn't a question.
She shrugged. "Of you? I don't think you're scary."
Something in his expression cracked, just a little.
"Everyone else does." He said quietly.
Eleanor frowned. "That's silly."
She leaned closer to the glass, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret.
"You just look sad."
The boy stared at her, not startled, not angry, just still.
No one had ever said that to him before.
In the observation room, silence fell.
Brenner's hand hovered near the door control. He could end this now. He should. This was uncontrolled. Unplanned. Dangerous.
And yet -
"Sir," The lead scientist murmured, eyes fixed on the screen, "this is the calmest he's ever been."
Brenner's jaw tightened.
Inside the room, the boy finally spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm Henry."
And for the first time since he had been brought into the lab, Henry Creel felt something.
Not power.
Not fear.
Not anger.
He felt seen.
Behind the glass, Dr. Brenner slowly lowered his hand.
"Let it continue." He said, eyes never leaving the screen.
And Eleanor - completely unaware of the way the world had just tilted on its axis - pressed her palm against the glass again and smiled at the boy who had never been allowed to be one.
Two weeks passed before Eleanor was brought back.
She noticed it immediately, even before papa said anything - there was something in the way he moved that morning, sharper than usual, his attention already elsewhere. He didn't hum whilst he buttered his toast. He didn't correct her posture at the table. He barely looked at her at all.
That usually meant the lab.
She followed him again through the same doors, the same corridors, her shoes echoing softly against the polished floor. This time, she didn't feel quite as curious.
She felt expectant.
The memory of the boy behind the glass had stayed with her in a way she hadn't expected. His eyes. The way he'd looked at her like he didn't quite believe she was real. The sound of his voice when he'd said his name.
Henry.
They hadn't spoken of it afterwards. Her father hadn't mentioned it once. When she'd asked if she could come back to the building again, he'd only nodded, distracted, and said, "Perhaps."
Now, here they were.
She sat on the same bench as before, hands folded neatly in her lap, watching her father speak in low tones with two scientists she didn't recognise. One of them glanced at her, then quickly looked away again.
"Why am I here?" Eleanor asked eventually, once they'd finished talking.
Dr. Brenner turned to her, his expression measured. "There's a boy here who could use some company."
Her heart gave a small, hopeful leap. "Henry?"
The faintest pause.
"Yes," Brenner said carefully, "Henry."
Eleanor frowned. "Is he okay?"
"He is…better." Brenner replied. "And we would like to see if that continues."
She swung her legs slightly. "So you want me to talk to him again?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Brenner knelt in front of her then, bringing himself level with her eyes. His voice softened - practiced, controlled.
"Because Henry is very lonely."
Eleanor considered that, her expression softening too. "That's sad."
"Yes," Brenner said, "it is."
She nodded decisively. "I can cheer him up."
Behind her, one of the scientists scribbled something quickly onto a clipboard.
Eleanor didn't notice.
She slid off the bench and stood, smoothing the hem of her dress with nervous fingers. She could feel butterflies in her tummy now, a strange mix of nerves and anticipation. She remembered the boy's face too clearly. The way his eyes had lingered on her, like he was trying to memorise something before it disappeared.
Brenner straightened and placed a light hand between her shoulder blades.
"Come with me." He said.
They walked down the corridor together. Eleanor recognised it instantly - the observation windows, the dimmer lights, the hush that seemed heavier here than anywhere else in the building. Her steps slowed without her meaning them to.
"Is he in the same room?" She asked, voice small.
"Yes."
"Does he know I'm coming?"
"No." Brenner said. "We prefer not to introduce…variables."
Eleanor didn't know what that meant, but it didn't sound very nice.
They stopped several feet back from the glass.
Henry sat inside the room exactly as before.
Same chair. Same table. Same too-straight posture. His hands were folded in his lap again, fingers laced together tightly enough that his knuckles were pale. He stared at the far wall, unmoving, as if waiting for something to happen - or bracing for it.
Eleanor felt a small, uncomfortable twist in her stomach.
He looked smaller than she remembered.
"Can I say hello?" She asked quietly.
Brenner nodded. "Yes. You may approach the glass. I'll be nearby."
He left, and Eleanor stepped forward.
The sound of her shoes against the floor was soft, but Henry's head lifted instantly. His eyes flicked to the glass, sharp and alert, scanning before settling on her face.
For a moment, he didn't react at all.
Then something in his expression shifted - not relief, not happiness, but recognition. Like a door unlocking somewhere deep inside him.
Eleanor smiled. "Hi, Henry."
He stared at her for a long beat, as though checking for tricks.
"You came back." He said finally.
"I said I might." She replied a little shyly.
"You didn't say when."
"I didn't know when," She admitted, "I don't get to choose."
His gaze slid briefly past her shoulder, towards the corridor behind her.
"Your father?" He asked.
"Yes."
A pause.
"They told you to come." Henry said. It wasn't a question.
Eleanor hesitated. "They asked if I would talk to you again."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Why?"
She shrugged. "They said you were lonely."
That seemed to catch him off guard.
He looked down at the table, jaw tightening. When he looked back up, his expression was carefully blank.
"They say a lot of things." He said. His fingers tightened briefly where they were laced together, then stilled again, as if he'd noticed the movement and corrected it.
Eleanor tilted her head. "Are they wrong?"
Another pause.
"I don't know." Henry said quietly.
She stepped closer to the glass but stopped short of touching it this time, as if she instinctively understood that she shouldn't.
"Did you get in trouble?" She asked.
"No."
"You looked like you might have," She said, "when I left last time."
Henry thought about that. "They were…interested."
"That doesn't sound good."
"It's not bad either." He said. "It just means more questions."
Eleanor wrinkled her nose. "I don't like questions."
He almost smiled at that. Almost.
Behind the glass, a monitor ticked softly as his heart rate shifted; not spiking, not dropping, just changing.
"Did you remember me?" Eleanor asked.
Henry didn't answer right away.
"I remember everything." He said finally.
"Oh." She brightened. "That must be useful."
"It's not."
She considered that. "I forget things all the time. Like where I leave my shoes."
He looked genuinely puzzled by that. "Why would you forget something like that?"
"Because my brain gets full." She said matter-of-factly. "Too many thoughts."
His eyes lingered on her, curious despite himself.
"What do you think about?" He asked.
She shrugged. "Books. School. Mama. Sometimes nothing."
"That's not possible." He said.
She smiled. "It is for me."
Henry watched her like she was describing something incomprehensible.
"You're different." He observed.
"Different how?"
"You're not careful." He replied.
She frowned. "I am careful. I didn't run in the hallway."
"That's not what I mean."
"Then what do you mean?"
He struggled for the words. They didn't come easily to him. "Most people…watch what they say. Like they're waiting to see what happens if they say the wrong thing."
"And do you do something if they say the wrong thing?" She asked gently.
He stiffened. "Sometimes."
Eleanor nodded slowly, accepting that without judgment.
"Well," She said, "I'm not very good at watching what I say."
Henry seemed to think about that for a long time.
Behind the glass, one of the scientists leaned towards Brenner and murmured, "He's maintaining eye contact."
Brenner didn't look away from the room. "Continue observing."
Inside, Eleanor shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
"I didn't see you for two weeks." Henry said suddenly.
"I know." She said softly. "I thought about you, though."
His eyes flicked up sharply. "Why?"
She looked surprised by the question. "Because you were nice to me."
"I wasn't." He said.
"You told me your name," She replied, "that's nice."
He didn't have an answer for that.
"Did you miss me?" She asked, almost as an afterthought, like she was asking whether he liked apples or oranges.
Henry froze.
The silence stretched.
Behind the glass, someone inhaled sharply.
Henry looked at the floor. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
"I don't…miss people." He said carefully. "I notice when they're gone."
Eleanor considered that. "That sounds like missing."
He frowned. "It's not the same."
"What's the difference?"
"I don't feel…bad." He said. "Not exactly."
"Oh." Eleanor paused. "I felt a bit bad."
That made him look at her again.
"Why?" He asked.
"Because I didn't know if you were okay." She said simply.
Henry didn't speak for a moment after that. Instead he breathed, eyes flicking away from her to the camera, then back.
"I was fine." He said.
"I'm glad." She replied, smiling.
Another quiet beat passed between them.
"You can talk more this time." Henry murmured.
"Am I not talking enough?"
"No." He said quickly. "I just mean…last time, it ended."
"Oh." She said. "Yes. They took me away."
He nodded. "They always end things."
She smiled at him. "I won't leave without saying goodbye this time."
That seemed to matter.
Behind the glass, the readings steadied again, smooth and controlled.
A scientist whispered, barely containing his excitement, "This is sustained regulation. No signs of agitation."
Brenner said nothing.
"Do you do stuff during the day?" She asked.
"Yes."
"What?"
"I sit," Henry said, "I listen. I answer questions."
"That sounds boring."
"It is." He agreed.
"Do you get books?"
"Sometimes."
"What kind?"
"Ones I'm supposed to read."
She laughed softly. "Those are the worst kind."
He didn't laugh - but the corner of his mouth twitched again, betraying him.
"I have a book at home about stars." She said suddenly. "Did you know some of them are already gone but we can still see them?"
"Yes." Henry said immediately.
"Oh." She blinked. "How did you know that?"
"I read it once."
She nodded, satisfied. "I like that idea. About stars."
"Why?"
"Because it means things can still matter even after they're gone."
Henry stared at her.
He didn't respond.
Behind the glass, Brenner felt something settle into place - not certainty, not yet, but confirmation.
"Sir," One of the scientists said quietly, "he hasn't dissociated once."
Brenner watched the two children - one curious and kind, the other watchful and contained - separated by glass, unaware of the weight being placed on their interaction.
"Yes." He said softly. "Continue exactly as planned."
The children spoke for a little while longer, before Brenner left the observation room.
Eleanor glanced at her papa who stood just out of sight. She turned to Henry and lifted her hand in a small wave.
"I think I have to go now, but I'll come back."
Henry hesitated, then nodded. "I'll be here."
"Okay." Eleanor said gently.
She stepped back, glancing at her father again.
"Goodbye, Henry."
"Goodbye, Eleanor."
He watched her leave without moving, committing the sound of her footsteps to memory.
And for the first time, the room did not feel quite as empty.
Henry learned the difference between quiet and silence very early.
Quiet meant nothing was happening.
Silence meant something was about to.
The room was silent.
He sat at the table with his hands flat against the surface, fingers spread slightly so he could feel the cold seep into his skin. The lights hummed above him. The camera blinked red. Somewhere beyond the walls, people spoke in voices too low to hear properly.
They had taken the girl away again.
Eleanor.
He didn't say her name out loud. He didn't say it at all, actually - but it stayed lodged behind his teeth, pressing there like something unfinished.
They told him to sit.
He sat.
They asked him questions.
He answered.
They told him to stop answering.
He stopped.
It should have been easy. It usually was.
Except this week, it wasn't.
Something kept pulling at him.
Not like the pain he sometimes felt - sharp, sudden, overwhelming - but something slower. Persistent. Like pressure building behind his eyes, like a low sound he couldn't quite hear but couldn't ignore either.
When he closed his eyes, he saw things move that weren't moving.
Not visions. Not pictures.
Impressions.
Heat.
Noise without sound.
The doctors called it agitation.
Henry knew better.
It felt like he was being crowded.
When Eleanor was there, it didn't.
That was the difference.
He didn't think of it as comfort. He didn't think of it as liking her. He didn't have words for those things, and even if he did, he didn't trust them.
What he noticed instead was this:
When Eleanor talked, the pressure lessened.
When Eleanor asked questions, the noise receded.
When Eleanor looked at him, the room stayed the same size.
The two weeks without her had been bad.
Not violent-bad. Not the kind that left marks.
The other kind.
The kind where thoughts piled up too fast.
Where emotions arrived without instructions.
Where the power leaked out sideways - lights flickering, objects rattling - not enough to be punished for, but enough to be noticed.
They watched him more closely after that.
They always did.
He tried to control it. He always tried. He sat still. He counted. He focused on numbers because numbers stayed where you put them.
But the pressure kept coming back.
It wasn't angry.
It was hungry.
Henry didn't know what it wanted.
He only knew that when Eleanor came back - when he saw her through the glass, looking at him like he mattered - the pressure loosened its grip.
He didn't understand why.
He only understood that it worked.
And that scared him more than when it didn't.