What Remains

The estate was silent, save for the ticking of a grandfather clock in the main entry. Outside, not even a breeze stirred the trees. It was as if the entire property held its breath.

But, if one followed the velvet-curtained halls and the faint scent of oil and dust, they’d find an old wooden door. Behind it—stone steps, curving into shadow. It was dark, but just around the bend, a faint light flickered.

There, the sound changed. The soft hiss of steam. The rhythmic knock of pipes. The clink of glass bottles.

At the center stood Dr. Ivar Wexley, reviewing each detail for the third time—no, perhaps the fourth. He ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking to the desk cluttered with sketches—musculature, organs, arteries. Equations scrawled across pages in looping script. He gripped the edge and let out a long, deliberate exhale.

Any moment now, Gregory would arrive.

Ivar tried to steady his breathing. His heart thundered; he forced his gaze back to his notes. Years—of failure, sleepless nights, and isolation—had led him here. He turned, looking over his shoulder. The table sat empty. But not for long. If all went according to plan, it wouldn’t just hold a cadaver. It would hold a miracle.

The door to Ivar’s lab groaned open, followed immediately by Gregory’s voice—loud and unbothered. Behind him shuffled Thaddeus Fogg. Their footsteps echoed down the stairwell, clumsy and uneven.

"Hold the body still, mate! It’s swaying more than me at the tavern."

Ivar exhaled sharply, tossed his glasses on the desk, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course.

They rounded the corner, Gregory guiding Fogg—who carried a shrouded form with the grace of a drunken sailor. Ivar followed, tense, making sure they didn’t knock anything over.

"For God’s sake, Gregory," he snapped. "Would you please be careful?"

The body landed with a soft thud on the table. Gregory caught his breath.

"Oh, I’m so sorry, Doctor. Next time I’ll make the corpse walk itself in."

Ivar shot him a flat look, then turned to Fogg, arms crossed.

"I trust no one saw you?"

Fogg tipped his hat, a crooked grin on his lips. "No sir. Filled her grave in early this morning. She’s unclaimed. No one’ll come looking."

Ivar blinked. Slowly. His gaze shifted to the covered body.

"She…?"

Gregory perked up, holding up a finger like he’d just remembered something.

"Ah yes! Change of plans. The gentleman I arranged for—cremated. However, this lovely lady was found hanging in her home. Poor dear."

He pulled back the sheet with a flourish. "Fresh. Unclaimed. And not to be crass—but quite the looker."

Ivar snapped the sheet back over her and fixed Gregory with a cold stare.

"This is not what we discussed."

Gregory leaned on the table, gesturing lazily.

"It’s a body. What’s the fuss?"

Ivar stormed across the lab, snatched a fistful of papers, and wheeled around, waving them in Gregory’s face.

"All of my calculations are based on the male body!"

Gregory smirked and leaned in.

"Honestly, I’d think you’d be thrilled. You get to play God and undress a pretty woman—all in one night. Bit of a two-for-one special, innit?"

He ducked a paper Ivar hurled at him, laughing.

"Come on, Ivar. You’re a smart man. A few minor adjustments… or Mr. Fogg here can take her back."

Ivar didn’t answer. He pressed a finger between his brows, eyes shut, jaw tight. After a beat, he muttered fragments—measurements, formulas—then abruptly turned and marched to his desk. The scratch of his pen filled the room, ink bleeding across the page like a storm. Fogg shifted, glancing at Gregory. Gregory gave a small smile and held up a finger. Wait.

Ivar turned sharply, reaching into his waistcoat. He handed an envelope to Fogg.

"Thank you for your services. You may go."

Fogg tipped his hat, cast a look at Gregory—still grinning—and disappeared up the stairs.

Ivar slowly turned to Gregory. He didn’t speak. He just stared. Gregory straightened, cleared his throat, and mimicked him stiffly.

"Thank you, Gregory."

Then, breaking into a grin, he spread his arms.

"Oh, my dear Ivar, what are ex-cons for, if not retrieving corpses for your little illegal experiments?"

Ivar stood still, expression unreadable. Then his tone shifted.

"Gregory, help me prepare the body. The real work begins."

Gregory straightened, the grin fading from his face. He caught it—the change. This wasn’t just another late-night experiment. This wasn’t Ivar slicing into pigs or testing nerve responses on preserved tissue.

No. This was different. This was the night Ivar Wexley would try to raise the dead

Gregory unveiled the body—small frame, soft features, mousey brown hair against pale skin. His eyes lingered on the bruised indentation along her neck where the rope had cut in.

Grim, he thought.

Carefully, he removed the remnants of her clothing and replaced them with a clean sheet, tugging it up to her collarbone with surprising gentleness.

At the desk, Ivar moved with mechanical precision, adjusting calculations to suit his new cadaver. He held up a glass bottle of clear liquid, inspecting its clarity under the light before attaching tubing.

Gregory glanced over. "What is that?"

Ivar didn’t look up.

"Intravenous therapy. My own blend. If it works, it should sustain the body long enough to restart the heart… and revive the organs."

He moved to the table and began setting up the IV, threading the tubing with practiced care. His eyes caught her hands—resting freely at her sides.

He sighed. "Gregory, why haven’t you secured the body as I asked?"

Gregory strolled over, arms full of blankets. "Come on. What could she possibly do?"

Ivar sighed again and began securing the restraints.

"I cannot have a body convulsing on my table and risk it rolling off. And if all goes well, I certainly don’t need it flailing or running off. It’s precautionary."

Gregory leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

"All I’m saying is… if you’re successful, a woman’s going to wake up strapped to a table with two strange men standing over her."

Ivar didn’t respond. He adjusted a dial and began hooking cloth-covered plates to her chest and legs.

"Exactly. And the last thing I need is a frightened woman free to use her limbs."

He gave one final tug to the restraints, then looked up.

"Besides, if she escapes, you’ll be the one retrieving her."

Ivar stepped back, scanning every wire, dial, and restraint. He gave a sharp nod.

"Right. Moment of truth."

He removed his waistcoat, rolled up his sleeves—brisk, deliberate. Then stepped toward the switch that could change everything.

Ivar’s hands trembled—just for a moment. Then he looked to Gregory.

Gregory gave a small, encouraging nod.

Ivar drew in a breath, then flipped the switch.

The lab lights blinked out in an instant.

Then—a surge. Light snapped back, brighter, buzzing.

The body jolted violently.

Limbs convulsed against the restraints. Her back arched, then slammed down again with a thud.

Gregory flinched but kept his eyes on her, alert.

Ivar didn’t look up—his focus snapped between the ticking of his watch and the readings on his equipment. Every few seconds, he checked again. And again.

Just a body, caught in a storm of electricity. Jerking. Twitching. Slamming against metal, like a puppet with its strings crossed.

It wasn’t working.

Ivar’s breath hitched. He was already stepping back, shoulders heavy with defeat, when—

Her eyes snapped open.

Two wide, brown eyes—blazing, aware, alive. She gasped—sharp and sudden—as if dragged up from the depths of the sea.

Ivar snapped the switch off. The lights steadied. The room fell eerily silent.

Gregory was already at her side, hands shaking as he fumbled with the IV line. Amazed. Terrified. Breathless.

The woman’s eyes fluttered, unfocused. She blinked slowly, trying to see through the blur, her body trembling beneath the restraints.

Ivar approached with deliberate steps, his expression unreadable—except for the widening of his eyes behind his lenses.

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He watched her chest rise. Fall. Rise again.

Uneven. Fragile. But breathing.

He had done it.

She let out a soft moan as Gregory slipped the needle into her arm, wincing in sympathy even as he worked.

"There we go," he murmured, his voice oddly gentle. "Liquid breakfast, darling. Drink up."

Ivar reached for his stethoscope and placed it against her chest. Her heartbeat was rapid—frantic at first—then, to his relief, it began to settle into a more natural rhythm.

He glanced down at her face.

She was fighting her eyelids, lashes fluttering. Slowly, steadily, she was coming back to consciousness. Her lips parted slightly.

"Gregory," Ivar said without looking away, "there’s a glass of water on the table."

Gregory retrieved it and handed it over, watching as the doctor gently lifted her head to meet the rim of the glass.

"Slowly now," Ivar whispered.

He pulled the glass back before she could take more, cautious not to overwhelm the fragile system.

But the woman let out a soft, pitiful whimper.

Gregory pressed a hand to his chest, dramatically stricken.

"Oh. That was devastating."

Ivar glanced at him, face blank, voice flat.

"Enough."

Ivar observed her in silence, the stethoscope still limp in his hand.

He took in the sight before him—rising breath, flushed skin, a flicker of awareness behind her half-lidded eyes. It didn’t seem real.

All the years spent buried in books, hunched over notes and broken scalpel blades. All the nights alone in this lab.

And now... he was here. It worked. For the first time, he allowed himself to feel it—something dangerously close to wonder.

Ivar stepped back and set the stethoscope down with care.

"Well," he said quietly, "I don’t believe she’ll be waking anytime soon."

He turned, retrieving his coat from the nearby hook. His movements were precise, composed—every inch the man in control.

"I’ll see you in the morning."

As he reached the stairs, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. His voice dropped into something firm—sharp with quiet authority.

"Keep an eye on her. Wake me if anything goes wrong."

Ivar disappeared up the stairs, leaving Gregory standing there, mouth agape.

"Oh, well then, by all means—get some rest, Doctor. I’ll just stay here and babysit your corpse experiment. Lovely."

He dropped into a nearby chair with a huff, arms draped over the sides. After a beat, he tilted his head and looked at the woman.

"Don’t worry, darling," he said, voice low and conspiratorial. "Not my first time spending the night with a beautiful woman... Slightly different circumstances, granted."

Eyeing the blanket draped across her.

"But your clothing choice? Surprisingly familiar."

Ivar entered the lab early that morning, the faint glow of sunrise creeping in through the high, narrow windows. The machines hummed soft and steady.

Gregory sat slouched in a chair, head bobbing in and out of sleep. One arm dangled over the side.

On the table, the woman still lay motionless—her chest rising and falling in a shallow rhythm. Still breathing. Still asleep.

So far, everything was normal. Well—as normal as resurrecting the dead could be.

He quietly removed the glass IV bottle, replacing it with a fresh one, careful not to disturb the tubing. Behind him, Gregory stirred. The chair creaked as he blinked awake, immediately realizing Ivar was already in the room—and that he'd absolutely been caught asleep on the job.

"Morning, Doctor," he mumbled, sitting up straighter and trying to look alert.

Ivar didn’t glance up from his work.

"Morning."

Gregory stood up, stretching his limbs with a yawn. "I’ll make us some tea."

Ivar nodded, eyes still on the equipment. "Yes, that would be excellent. And please—find some clothes for the subject."

Gregory paused mid-step, blinking. "The subject?"

He turned back to Ivar, who was at his desk, gathering blank pages and flipping to a clean section in his journal.

"Ivar," Gregory said slowly, "she’s a woman. She has a name."

Reaching into his vest pocket, he pulled out a folded slip of paper—the death certificate he’d received with the body.

Gregory set the certificate down on Ivar’s desk with a firm tap, then turned and left the lab.

Ivar kept organizing his notes, pretending not to notice. But the folded paper sat at the edge of his vision—obnoxiously white, painfully present.

He tried to ignore it. Tried. But after a few seconds, he glanced over his shoulder at the woman lying motionless on the table. His eyes flicked back to the paper. With an exasperated sigh, he dropped into his chair and opened it. Leaning back, he scanned the contents, muttering the details aloud.

"Age, twenty-two… no spouse… no listed occupation… no next of kin…"

His finger paused at the cause of death.

Suicide.

He swallowed that down.

Then, finally, his eyes reached the name.

Lilith Moore.

Ivar let the name linger in his mind, but he didn’t dare speak it aloud.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

His subject was meant to be a man—a nameless experiment, a vessel. Now it was her. And she had a name.

Lilith.

The thought pressed uncomfortably against his ribs.

A sudden sound broke his concentration.

Frantic tugging.

Ivar stood up sharply, heart lurching. On the table, Lilith was awake—fully, this time. Her eyes darted wildly around the room, breath sharp and shallow as she yanked at the restraints on her wrists and ankles. Over and over. Desperate. Terrified.

He strode toward her, but the movement only startled her more.

She twisted away from him, turning her head—and as much of her upper body as the restraints allowed. Panic radiated off her in waves.

He stopped. Raised his hands—slow, careful.

Then, quietly, he reached for the glass of water left on the table from the night before.

"Lilith," he said gently, "it’s alright. Here."

He held the glass out—close enough for her to see, but not too close.

She looked at it, wary. Skeptical. Then she saw his eyes. Not cruel. Not cold. Just tired. Alert. Human.

After a moment, she leaned toward the glass. Ivar met her halfway, slipping a hand beneath her head and lifting her gently. This time, he didn’t stop her. He let her drink as much as she wanted. To his surprise, she finished the glass—draining every drop. When she pulled away, she took a shaky breath, then let it out in a soft, relieved sigh.

He lowered her back onto the pillow, setting the glass aside. His eyes never left her face.

"Lilith?" he asked quietly.

The name hung between them. She looked up at him. Tall. Wiry. A narrow, angular face. Shadows clung to him, but his blue eyes—piercing, pale—caught the light like glass in water.

She swallowed. Tried to speak. Her voice cracked, dry and raw.

"Please… I’m not sick. It was a mistake. I… it was a moment of weakness."

Her eyes squeezed shut as tears broke free, trailing down her cheeks. Ivar stared at her. He hadn’t planned for this.

Not for her to cry.

Not for her to feel.

Not for this to become something real.

Ivar stayed calm, but his expression remained unreadable.

"Where do you think you are right now?"

Lilith sniffled. "I must be at some sort of hospital. Being treated. Someone must’ve found me after I passed out and sent me here. A madwoman…"

She trailed off, voice brittle.

Ivar took a step forward. Wordlessly, he began undoing the restraints.

"No," he said quietly. "You were brought here. But, Lilith…"

He hesitated, just for a moment.

"You were already deceased."

She blinked at him, confused.

Then he held something out—a folded document. Her hand trembled as she took it.

Slowly, she opened the paper.

Her eyes scanned the document. She held the sheet tighter against herself as she sat up, the blanket pulled higher to her chest.

Then her gaze stopped.

Fixed on one word.

Suicide.

She crumpled the certificate in one fist and let it fall to the floor. Her knees came up to her chest, her arms curling around them like armor.

Without looking at him, she asked,

"Who… are you?"

Ivar looked at her. Not at the subject. Not at a successful procedure. Not at data waiting to be recorded.

At her.

He opened his mouth, but no words came. The answer was simple—but for the first time, he didn’t want to be a scientist, or a doctor, or a man who played God.

He wanted to be seen.

"I’m…"

He hesitated. Then, quietly—without the armor:

"I’m Ivar Wexley."

She let out a dry, shaky laugh. "Strange name."

He frowned slightly, removing his glasses and wiping them with a cloth he didn’t seem to realize he’d grabbed.

"Yes, well… my mother was Danish. My father, English—with German roots."

He paused, just for a beat.

"So... not that strange."

Lilith glanced around the room. Her eyes flicked to the wires, the dim lights, the strange machines humming quietly around her.

"You brought me back?"

Ivar slipped his hands into his pockets. "Yes."

She looked at him, brow creased. "Is this… a hobby of yours?"

He almost laughed. Almost.

"No," he said, shaking his head faintly. "Well… it’s certainly my life’s work."

He hesitated—just long enough for it to matter.

"But you… you would be the first."

Ivar watched cautiously as Lilith slowly swung her legs over the edge of the table.

"I’m sorry," he said quietly, "if you didn’t want to be brought back."

She let her feet sway just slightly, staring down at the floor.

"I didn’t want to die," she murmured. "I just… didn’t want to hurt anymore."

For a moment, there was silence. Then Ivar did something that felt both unnatural and entirely necessary.

He leaned against the table beside her—and took her hand. Not as a doctor. Not as a scientist. As a man offering something real.

"I don’t believe in fate," he said softly, "but I do believe in second chances."