Dr. Zoë Kret, PsyD, rushed to finish her notes on her last patient when she heard the door swoosh open. She looked up to see two beautiful young girls hesitantly entering her office with their father and stopping behind the two cushioned chairs in front of her desk.

The sight of Amerigo struck her like the scent of rain on New Mexico asphalt—that astronomy conference in Albuquerque where Jenni had appeared at his elbow with two coffees and a laugh that said, he’s mine.

“Amerigo,” Zoë said, rising from her chair before she could stop herself.

“Zoë.” His voice was steady, but his eyes softened. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw the same flicker of possibility that had once passed between them. Then he blinked, shuttering it.

“It’s been a long time,” she said, a cautious smile tugging at her lips.

“Yes,” he replied. His gaze drifted past her bookshelves, the diplomas, anywhere but her eyes. “Different lives.”

She wanted to say more—that she had wondered about him, about the life he had chosen—but the set of his shoulders warned her off. He carried absence with him, the absence of Jenni. And yet, beneath it, she sensed the tremor of something he was unwilling to let surface.

“I should wait outside,” he said quickly. “Let you work.”

“Of course.” She hesitated, then added softly, “Thank you for bringing them.”

Then, with a nod, he was gone, leaving only the hush of the closing door.

Zoë steadied herself and turned to Celectra.

“Hello, Dr. Kret, I’m here for my first session,” she said timidly.

Dr. Cruiz’s notes, received just before Tim set up the appointment, were extraordinary. They claimed a single consciousness across two bodies, coining the term “mononous disomas”—an unprecedented phenomenon. Zoë had studied conjoined twins with distinct minds sharing physical lives, but this was the opposite. While she trusted Dr. Cruiz implicitly, she’d learned in New Eden, under the orange glow of Ciara, to trust her own observations over secondhand reports, no matter how compelling. Her piercing green eyes, analytical and intense, studied the child with a mix of professional curiosity and subtle warmth. She decided to start with a simple test.

Zoë nodded, noting the singular pronoun just as in Cruiz’s referral. “You must be Electra and Celeste Carisco. I’m pleased to meet you both,” she said, testing the waters.

Celectra’s bodies stiffened almost imperceptibly—not confusion, but correction. Ah, Zoë thought. She hears the fracture in that sentence.

“I’m Celectra,” both voices said softly. “Just one person.”

Zoë deleted “mononous disomas” from her mental notes before the child even sat down. Some truths couldn’t be captured in Greek. “Celectra,” she repeated, letting the name settle between them. “Call me Miss Zoë or Dr. Zoë if you prefer; having two people called Dr. Kret is too confusing. You may not know this, but my father is Dr. Douglas Kret, chief physician here. Shall we make up a story together?”

Celectra’s eyes lit up as she scrambled over the arms of the chairs to sit. “The story thing sounds great to me! Could we do it in a holo-chamber?”

“Next time, absolutely! I’ll schedule my time slots around our sessions,” Zoë said with a smile. “In the meantime, why don’t you think about a good scenario for our story?” Before Celectra could respond, she went on, “But first, one question. When I close my eyes, I feel my inner ‘me’ right behind my eyes and between my ears. Where do you feel yourself?”

Celectra closed her four eyes for a moment. “I feel like I’m in both heads at the same time, but also between them. It’s like… if my brains were Niamh and Ciara, except identical… then part of ‘me’ is between them like their barycenter.”

A barycenter—like a virtual corpus callosum, integrating sensory input into a single self. Zoë jotted a note, her mind racing. This wasn’t just a child’s metaphor; it was a precise description of a unified consciousness, a data point for her research. But Celectra’s words also struck a deeper chord. That sense of being “between” two points—Zoë knew it too well. Her own identity felt split: the compassionate psychologist versus the daughter of Dr. Kret, raised on Earth to inherit his relentless drive for discovery. She pushed the thought aside, focusing on the session.

“That’s a beautiful analogy. Thank you for sharing. Now, let’s think about our story.”

Celectra exclaimed, “I already have one! I’ll be a water nymph named Aquella. I live in a pool in a stream in an enchanted forest.”

“Ah, fantasy! You’re a natural at this! You’ve introduced Aquella. Now, can your other body play a different character?”

This was the real test. If Cruiz was right about the unified consciousness, how would Celectra handle splitting into separate roles? Zoë’s research instincts sharpened—Aquella’s nurturing, ageless persona might be a coping mechanism, a way to assert control over her dual existence.

Celectra hesitated. Both bodies exchanged a quick glance—and a faint static lifted the fine hairs on her arms. She pressed her palms flat against the chair’s metal armrests, grounding herself before answering. “I’m just one person,” she said softly, her tone steady but not defensive. “But I’ll try to play separate parts.”

The correction was immediate, a quiet insistence on her unity. Zoë noted it: Celectra’s resistance to being “split” suggested a fear of fragmentation, a psychological anchor to explore. It mirrored Zoë’s own fear—being pulled apart by her role as a healer and the shadow of her father’s ambition. She caught herself analyzing Celectra as a “fascinating case study,” her father’s clinical phrase echoing in her mind. No. She wasn’t him. She forced herself to refocus on empathy, seeing Celectra not as data but as a child who needed trust.

Zoë shrugged. “I guess it’s my turn. I’ll be a young human woman from the Skitrole Clan. My name is Lolita.”

Celectra embraced her role. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lolita. I’ve heard of the Skitroles. They had a thriving city sixty kilometers east of here two thousand years ago.”

The transition was seamless—no pause, no confusion. Zoë noted the fluidity as evidence of a single consciousness, a key data point for her paper. But Celectra’s choice—an ancient, misunderstood nymph—hinted at a deeper coping strategy: projecting timelessness to counter fears of being “broken apart.”

Lolita: “We have stories of city life, but what does a child like you know of such things? You look no older than seven.”

Aquella: “I was there and knew some of the people. I look little, but I’ve been here forever. My dad’s a fairy, so I age super slow. I’ll probably live to be seventy to ninety thousand years old! I’m currently seven thousand four hundred and twenty-six years old. So, what brings you to my neck of the woods?”

Ancient, helpful, yet isolated—Zoë scribbled a note. Celectra’s character chose immortality and solitude—a curious choice for a seven-year-old. Zoë noted it, but caught herself assigning motive. Don’t pathologize play, she reminded herself. Ask first. It echoed Zoë’s own struggle to assert her identity against her father’s legacy, a tension she hadn’t fully faced until now.

Lolita: “I came here by accident. I’m a bit lost. What powers do people seek from you?”

Aquella: “My touch rejuvenates, but you don’t need that!”

Lolita: “Oh, I’ve heard of you. My father says you steal people’s souls!”

Aquella: “Ha! What would I want with a puff of air? I’m practically all air myself. No one’s ever gotten hurt from my magic. Not animals, not people. I promise. I only wish for lasting friendships.”

The dismissal of “souls” as “puffs of air” was striking. Zoë noted it as a possible defense mechanism—denying a divisible self to protect her unity. It hit too close to home: Zoë’s fear of losing her empathic core to her father’s cold, analytical mindset.

Lolita: “That sounds good enough for me. Do you know where my tribe is now?”

Aquella: “Yes, I’d happily escort you there. I’ll have to fly ahead to scout the way.”

Lolita: “Fly? You make it sound like you’re a bird!”

Aquella: “My father is a fairy, and my mother was a sylph, so naturally, I have wings. See?”

Lolita: “Lovely wings indeed. I’m starving, and my family will worry. Shall we go?”

Aquella: “Yes, of course! Your village is this way.”

Lolita: “It’s getting late. I hope there aren’t spooky creatures in these woods!”

Aquella: “Don’t worry, nothing will bother you with me around. The animals love me because I’ve helped them over the centuries.”

Celectra narrates: They walk along an old, overgrown path, the sun sinking low. Soon, they see something moving ahead.

Her voices shifted effortlessly between Aquella and the narrator, with no lag between her bodies. Zoë’s research brain cataloged the synchronicity—proof of mononous disomas—but her heart saw a child clinging to unity through fantasy.

Lolita: “What or who is that?”

Aquella: “I don’t know, but it looks like a satyr. Let’s get closer, but be careful.”

Lolita: “Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll wait here.”

Aquella: “Okay.”

Zoë narrates, “Aquella slowly approaches the mysterious creature. She calls out…”

Aquella: “Who goes there?”

Celectra’s other body filled in: “It is I, Kylyn. I am a harmless faun.”

No hesitation—the response was instantaneous, as if one mind extended through both bodies. Zoë’s skepticism crumbled; this was no coordinated act but a single consciousness. Her research ambitions flared—a paper on this could cement her career if she were still on Earth. But again, her father’s voice crept in: Fascinating case study. She recoiled, heart racing. Celectra wasn’t a specimen; she was a child, terrified of being pulled apart, just as Zoë feared being consumed by her father’s legacy. She refocused, grounding herself in Celectra’s trust.

Aquella: “We wish you no harm either. I am Aquella, and my friend hiding in the bushes is Lolita.”

Lolita: “I’m not hiding; I’m resting!”

Kylyn: “I’m glad to meet you both. Do you know any place to spend the night?”

Celectra maintained two distinct character voices and narration effortlessly. Zoë noted the psychological resilience: roleplay as a safe space to assert her unity.

Lolita: “We’re on our way to my village, but don’t you woodland creatures sleep outside?”

Kylyn: “Not out in the open! I’m heading North to find the Great Grand Stallion.”

Aquella: “The Great Grand Stallion! Why?”

Kylyn: “There’s a human war far south, and they’re using dragons as mounts, brain-draining them to subdue them. I can’t let them abuse dragons like that.”

The “brain-draining” dragons struck Zoë as a metaphor for Celectra’s fear of separation, of losing her unified self. It mirrored Zoë’s own dread of being split—her empathic self versus the scientist shaped by Kret. She jotted it down, not just as data but as a reminder to stay human.
Lolita: “That’s terrible! Why don’t we spend the night at my house and discuss it?”

Aquella: “Excellent idea. I’d like to help you, Kylyn. Some of those dragons are my friends!”

Zoë sat back, her assessment crystallizing. Celectra’s roleplay was a coping mechanism, a way to process her fear of being “pulled apart” by creating a world where she controlled her unity. It was a goldmine for research but also a plea for understanding. Zoë’s own identity teetered—her father’s daughter saw a an amazing case; her psychologist self saw a child needing protection.

“That was wonderful storytelling, Celectra,” Zoë said, gently closing the roleplay. “You have quite an imagination.”

Celectra beamed, both faces lighting up. “Thank you! That was fun. Will we continue it next time?”

“Absolutely. But I’d also like to talk directly sometimes. How do you feel about coming here? Are you nervous about seeing a psychologist?”

“A little,” Celectra admitted. “Dr. Cruiz and Daddy said you might help people understand me better. Sometimes grown-ups get confused.”

Zoë nodded. “You’re unique, and people aren’t always sure how to respond. My job isn’t to change you—it’s to understand you and help others do the same. Maybe even help you understand yourself.”

“You’re using Socratic questioning mixed with narrative therapy,” Celectra observed, tilting both heads. “That’s good for kids who are confused about who they are. But I’m not confused—everyone else is.”

Zoë blinked. “Have you been reading clinical psychology texts?”

“Utara gave me access when I asked why people kept asking me weird questions about ‘which one’ I was.”

Celectra’s confidence faltered. “You don’t think there’s something wrong with me?”

“Not at all. You’re just… different. And different isn’t wrong.”

Celectra hesitated, her fingers curling into the fabric of her romper. “Sometimes I wish I weren’t different, though. I mean… I like being me. But I hate how people look at me. Like I’m a problem that needs fixed.”

Zoë leaned forward, her voice soft. “That sounds really hard.”

“It is.” Celectra’s voices dropped in unison. “Sometimes I get mad at myself. Like… why couldn’t I just be normal? One body. One brain. Maybe Daddy wouldn’t worry so much.”

Zoë’s heart ached at the quiet confession. “It’s okay to feel that way. Being different doesn’t mean you don’t get tired of it sometimes. It just means you’re honest.”

Celectra nodded slowly, her eyes distant. “I don’t want to be mad at myself. But I don’t want to pretend it’s easy, either.”

Zoë smiled gently. “That’s brave, Celectra. Really brave.”

As Celectra gathered herself to leave, Zoë’s thoughts drifted to Amerigo. His absence on Utopis and his grief for Jenni stirred old feelings from their college days. She couldn’t help but wonder if this case might offer her a second chance with Amerigo—though the circumstances couldn’t be more complicated, with him grieving his wife and her needing to maintain professional boundaries while treating his daughter. The thought both thrilled and terrified her. But Celectra’s case—and her own struggle to stay true to her empathic core against her father’s influence—was what mattered now. She couldn’t let herself become Dr. Kret, seeing only “fascinating” data. Celectra deserved more.