Zara’s back!

The workshop smelled of metal shavings and burnt circuits, a testament to years of trial and error. Zara stood over the workbench, her hands trembling as she tightened the final screw. The device before her, a sleek amalgamation of copper wires, glowing diodes, and tiny gears, pulsed faintly as if it had a heartbeat of its own.

“Are you sure this will work?” Arman asked from across the room, his voice laced with equal parts doubt and hope.

Zara didn’t look up. She couldn’t. If she did, she feared the weight of his expectations might crush her resolve. “I’ve tested every calculation,” she murmured. “This time, it’s different.”

Arman sighed and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “You said that last time. And the time before that.”

She flinched at the reminder of her failures but didn’t respond. This wasn’t about ego. It wasn’t even about proving him wrong. It was about the promise she had made three years ago, on the night everything fell apart. That night was etched into her memory like a scar. The screech of tires, the shattering of glass, the deafening silence that followed. Layla, their six-year-old daughter, had been full of life, brimming with questions about the world and endless laughter. Losing her had left an unbearable void, one that Zara couldn’t accept.

While Arman turned to grief counseling and family support groups, Zara buried herself in research. She combed through ancient texts, fringe science journals, and anything that hinted at the possibility of crossing the veil between life and death.

“You’re trying to play God,” Arman had told her during one of their many arguments. “It’s not natural, Zara. It’s not right.”

But for Zara, morality wasn’t the issue. The only thing that mattered was bringing Layla back.

Now, three years later, the culmination of her efforts sat on the workbench before her. A machine she had painstakingly built, piece by piece, using knowledge that straddled the line between science and mysticism.

“Just… tell me what to do,” Arman said finally, his voice softening.

“Stand back,” Zara replied, a spark of determination lighting her dark eyes.

She flipped the switch.

The room plunged into an electric hum as the device whirred to life. Lights flickered, and for a moment, it felt as though the universe itself was holding its breath. The air grew thick with static, and a shimmering silhouette began to form in the center of the room.

“Layla?” Arman whispered, stepping forward before Zara held him back.

“Wait,” she warned, her heart pounding in her chest.

The silhouette grew clearer, coalescing into the figure of a little girl. Her curls bounced as she turned, her eyes wide with curiosity.

“Mommy? Daddy?”

Arman choked on a sob, and Zara felt tears spill down her cheeks. Layla’s voice was exactly as they remembered-soft, lilting, and full of life.

But something was wrong. The figure flickered, like a faulty hologram. The device sparked violently, and Zara rushed to stabilize it.

“Zara, what’s happening?” Arman cried, panic rising in his voice.

“It’s… unstable,” she gritted out, her fingers flying over the controls.

Layla’s form shimmered again, her eyes now filled with fear. “Mommy, it’s dark. I’m scared!”

Zara’s heart broke, but she knew what she had to do. With shaking hands, she flipped the power switch off.

“No!” Arman shouted, but it was too late. The device went silent, and with it, Layla disappeared.

For a long moment, the room was filled only with the sound of Zara’s ragged breathing. “You promised,” Arman said, his voice hollow.

“I know,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “But bringing her back like that… it’s not life. It’s a shadow.”

He turned away, unable to look at her. Zara slumped against the workbench, staring at the lifeless device. She had been so close.

In the days that followed, the silence between Zara and Arman was deafening. He spent more time outside the house, while she remained locked in the workshop, pouring over the machine’s blueprints.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson, Zara found herself drawn to Layla’s room. The bed was still neatly made, the walls adorned with her drawings-crude sketches of trees, animals, and stick-figure families.

She sat on the edge of the bed and picked up one of Layla’s favorite books. Flipping through the pages, she stumbled upon a handwritten note in Layla’s wobbly handwriting: “I love you, Mommy and Daddy. Forever.” Tears blurred her vision as she clutched the note to her chest.

That night, Zara made a decision. She returned to the workshop and dismantled the machine. It wasn’t easy; every bolt she unscrewed felt like letting go of a part of Layla. But as the pieces piled up, a strange sense of relief washed over her. When Arman returned home, he found Zara sitting in the living room, the dismantled machine in a box at her feet.

“What’s this?” he asked, his voice cautious.

“It’s over,” she said quietly. “I’m done chasing ghosts.”

Arman sank into the chair opposite her, studying her face. For the first time in years, she looked at peace. “After all this time,” she said, “It works… but it’s not what we need.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. They sat in silence, the weight of their shared grief finally lifting as they faced the future together.