I never liked funerals—especially those of relatives.

The smell of daisies, the whispers, and the looks of pity made me sick.

The sky was gray that day. My brother, Ethan Walker, was at Arlington Military Cemetery.
He was an Air Force colonel, a hero of three secret missions, a man the whole city knew.

And me—Rachel Walker, the sister who “never should have left the mental hospital.”
At least, that’s what they said about me.

I returned after six years.
As I stepped out of the taxi, I could feel the cold eyes on me.

“Rachel… are you really here?” Mom said, her voice a mixture of fear and reluctance.

“Of course, I came to say goodbye to Ethan.”

“He didn’t want to see you, even when he was alive.”

The words fell, heavy as a stone.

Everyone around nodded slightly, as if she had just stated the obvious.

I didn’t argue. I looked around—every relative, every comrade, every friend. Everyone was dressed neatly, speaking softly, except for one strange thing: no one mentioned death.

There was no “accident,” “mission,” or “sacrifice.” Just silence.

In the funeral home, the coffin was closed.
I heard them whisper as I approached:

“Rachel still looks the same—tangled hair, lifeless eyes.”

“She said Ethan was alive, remember? Totally insane.”

“Her parents hid her in the hospital for six years and she still hasn’t gotten better.”

I heard everything.
They thought I didn’t know.

I bowed my head, looking at the picture of my brother on the altar—a neat uniform, a cold smile. But that look… wasn’t Ethan’s.

When everyone left, I was alone.

The funeral home was silent, save for the wind whistling through the cracks in the door.

My phone vibrated.
A text message.
From “Ethan.”

“Rachel, don’t trust them. Don’t leave.”

A chill ran down my spine.
That number had been disconnected six years ago.

I stepped out into the courtyard, into the white field of graves.
The wind picked up. Everyone else looked up.

A terrible roar sounded in the distance.
The sky was cut by a silver-gray jet, descending so low that the wind whipped into my face.

The usher shouted, “Get out of here! This is a no-fly zone!”

But the plane… stopped right above Ethan’s burial site.
Then it landed on a nearby street.

On the fuselage, I saw strange markings—not from the US Air Force.

The cargo door opened.
Two men in black uniforms got out, their faces covered, no insignia.
One of them spoke into the radio:

“Target confirmed. Rachel Walker is present. Begin procedure.”

My mother shouted: “What are you doing? This is my son’s funeral!”

The other just turned around, took off his mask.

It was Ethan.

I collapsed.

He stepped closer, his eyes still the same as in the photo—cold and empty.

“Rachel,” he said softly, “play your role a little longer. Everyone is watching.”

Ethan led me onto the plane.
I don’t remember if I resisted or not—it was all like a dream.

Inside the cabin, all screens and flashing lights. A woman in a black suit turned around:

“Rachel Walker, you were the last person to see Project Prometheus in action. We need you to confirm your memory.”

“Project… what?”
“Ethan hasn’t said anything? He’s not dead. He’s been recreated.”

I looked over—my brother was still standing there, but his face was drained of color.

The light from the control panel reflected off his metal eyes.

“He’s not human anymore,” the woman said.

“Why do you think he ‘died’ six years ago?”

I remembered—that day, Ethan went missing on a mission to the Nevada Test Range. The government said no body was found. I’d been screaming everywhere that he was alive, that I’d heard him calling my name over the radio.
They said I was psychotic.
And locked me up.

The woman placed an old memory card in front of me, marked “R.W.”.

“This is the recording you left before you were quarantined. You helped Ethan escape from Prometheus.”

I shakily played the audio file:

“Ethan, if you hear this—don’t let them control you. They’ll change you, erase your memories, turn you into something else…”

My voice—the voice from six years ago—resounded, weak and scared.

“…If you forget me, go to your own funeral. I’ll be there.”

I understood.
I was the trigger point for his memory.

Ethan turned to look at me, his artificial eyes dilating as if fighting with himself.

“Rachel…do you remember your mother?”
“Yes, she’s still down there. I’m scaring her.”

“Not anymore.”

He said, his voice low.

“The funeral, the people who came—none of them were real. They were just clones created to make you appear.”

I was breathless.
“You think you escaped the asylum? Rachel, you never left.”

The entire cabin distorted—lights flashing, sirens blaring, walls melting like mercury.

I realized I was in a virtual test chamber.

A female voice came from the speakers:

“Subject R.W. is beginning to lose consciousness. Emotional response level at 92%. Prepare to end simulation.”

I screamed, “No! I want to see my real brother!”

The door opened.
A figure stepped in.
It wasn’t Ethan.
It was me—another version, wearing a white blouse.

“Your current version is complete

all. We just need your emotional data to complete Project Prometheus-2.”

“Where is my brother?”

“He never existed. He was a personality created in your head—to activate the empathy protocol.”

I laughed. A twisted laugh.
“Then why is there still jet noise in the sky?”

They looked at each other, bewildered.

Outside the glass door, a bright light erupted. A flying object tore through the lab dome.

The door exploded, and the wind blew everything away.

Out of the dust, Ethan stepped out, in flesh and blood, in a tattered uniform.

He looked straight at my clone and said,

“Thank you for keeping your promise, Rachel.”

Then he turned to me:

“Now let’s get out of here together.”

He took my hand and pulled me through the flames. Behind me, the system exploded, and the screen displayed the final text:

“Prometheus program failed: subject has regained true memory.”

Two weeks later, I woke up in a military hospital.
By my bed was a photo: Ethan and I—but he was in civilian clothes, smiling genuinely.
There was no sign of a fake.

The nurse said they found me in the Nevada desert, near the abandoned base.
No one believed me when I told him.

That night, I opened the window. A streak of silver streaked across the sky.
The old radio in the room played softly:

“Rachel, mission accomplished. I’m home.”

I smiled softly, tears falling.
Outside, the wind still smelled of smoke and metal.
My brother—my General—was finally back for real.