The karaoke room was Sophie's last resort.
"Phase Two failed," she announced the next morning, standing in my living room with the melted projector in a cardboard box like a fallen soldier. "The projector is dead. The reenactments were a disaster. Kevin cried real tears exactly once, and it was because he stepped on a LEGO, not because of emotional authenticity."
"There was a LEGO on the floor," Kevin said quietly.
"There's always a LEGO on the floor. This is New York." Sophie set the box down. "But I have one more idea. One final, desperate, possibly brilliant idea."
"Karaoke," I said.
Sophie froze. "How did you know?"
"Because you've been muttering about karaoke for three days. You mentioned it during the microwave lesson. You mentioned it during breakfast. You mentioned it at 2 AM when you were sleep-tweeting."
"I don't sleep-tweet."
"Kevin showed me the thread. You tweeted seventeen times about karaoke. One of them was just the word 'KARAOKE' in all caps with fourteen exclamation points."
"That was a different tweet. There were fifteen exclamation points." Sophie grabbed my hands. "Listen. Before the accident, you loved karaoke. We went every month. You always sang the same song—'Dancing Queen.' You sang the second verse off-key every single time. It was the most human thing about you."
"I don't remember loving karaoke."
"That's why we're going. Not to the fancy place in Midtown. The old place. The one in Koreatown with the sticky floors and the neon sign that flickers. You said it was the only place in New York where you felt like a person instead of a CEO."
Lucas appeared from his office, tablet in hand. "If you're going to karaoke, I should arrange security. The location in Koreatown is not—"
"Lucas." Sophie turned to him. "You're coming."
"I don't sing."
"No one asked you to sing. You're coming because Vivian needs you there. And also because I want to see your ears during the ballad."
"There's going to be a ballad?"
"There's always a ballad."
---
The karaoke place was exactly as Sophie had described it.
Sticky floors. A neon sign that flickered between "KARA KE" and " A OKE." A bored teenager at the front desk who didn't look up from his phone when we walked in. Hallways lined with private rooms, each one leaking a different song—a power ballad to the left, someone absolutely butchering a rap song to the right, and from somewhere deeper in the building, what sounded like a group of drunk accountants doing a surprisingly competent rendition of "Bohemian Rhapsody."
"This is perfect," Sophie breathed. "It hasn't changed at all."
"It smells like regret," Lucas said.
"That's how you know it's authentic."
Room 7 was small and dark and lit entirely by a disco ball that spun in uneven jerks. Sophie immediately commandeered the song catalog. Kevin set up his laptop on the tiny table—because of course he brought his laptop to karaoke. Lucas took his usual position near the door, arms crossed, ears already a cautious pink.
"No one is forcing you to stay," I told him.
"You're here. I'm here."
"That's not actually an explanation."
"It's the only explanation I have."
Sophie grabbed the microphone and spun around. "OKAY. The rules are simple. Everyone sings at least one song. No excuses. No backing out. If Lucas doesn't sing, he has to do the dance."
"What dance?" Lucas asked.
"The dance I choreograph specifically for him."
"There's a dance?"
"There's always a dance." Sophie clicked a button on the remote, and the screen lit up with the first song. "I'm going first. Someone has to set the standard."
The song was a dramatic power ballad from the 1990s. Sophie did not so much sing as perform emotional warfare on every note. She closed her eyes. She swayed. She hit approximately thirty percent of the correct pitches and made up the rest with pure, unrelenting confidence. When she finished, she was crying.
"That was beautiful," Kevin said.
"That was statistically the worst performance of that song ever recorded," Lucas said.
"Thank you both. I'm very moved." Sophie wiped her eyes and handed the microphone to Kevin. "Your turn."
Kevin stood up like a man walking to his execution. He took the microphone. He stared at the screen. And when the music started, he opened his mouth and—
He was incredible.
The song was a Korean ballad, slow and aching and full of notes that required actual talent to reach. Kevin hit every single one. His voice was clear and warm and so completely unexpected that Sophie dropped her drink.
"KEVIN?!" she shrieked.
Kevin kept singing, eyes closed, hands gripping the microphone like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
"KEVIN HAS BEEN HOLDING OUT ON US?!"
"He's very good," Lucas said, ears shifting from cautious pink to surprised pink.
"He's AMAZING. Kevin, why didn't you tell us you could sing?!"
Kevin finished the song, opened his eyes, and shrugged. "You never asked. I won a competition in college. I don't like to talk about it."
"YOU WON A COMPETITION?!"
"It was a small competition."
"HOW SMALL?"
"National. But there were only forty-seven contestants."
Sophie lunged across the room and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Kevin. You are the most talented person in this room. You are the most talented person in this BUILDING. I'm going to enter you in every karaoke competition in New York. I'm going to be your manager."
"I don't want a manager."
"Too bad. You have one now. Sophie Chen Talent Agency. I just founded it. You're our first client."
"I don't think that's how talent agencies work."
"It's how MINE works."
---
Then it was my turn.
Sophie handed me the microphone with the solemnity of a priest passing a sacred relic. "Your song. The one you always sang. 'Dancing Queen.' I already queued it up."
"I don't know the words."
"Yes, you do. You just don't remember that you know." She guided me toward the small stage—really just a slightly elevated section of sticky floor—and stepped back. "Trust your body. Trust the music. Your brain forgot, but your body remembers."
The song started.
The first notes of "Dancing Queen" filled the tiny room, tinny and bright through the old speakers. I stood there with the microphone in my hand, feeling ridiculous and uncertain and absolutely certain that I was about to embarrass myself.
And then the chorus hit.
And I opened my mouth.
And I sang.
The words came from somewhere I didn't recognize—not my brain, not my conscious mind, but deeper. Muscle memory. The kind of memory that lived in the body long after the mind had let go. I knew every word. Every note. Even the second verse, which I did, indeed, sing off-key.
But it wasn't just the song.
It was the memory.
I was standing in this exact room. The same sticky floor. The same flickering disco ball. Sophie was beside me, laughing, her arm around my shoulder. And someone else was there too—a third person, a woman with dark hair and a bright laugh. We were singing together. All three of us. The holy trinity of unstoppable women.
Elena.
The microphone slipped from my hand.
Sophie caught it. "Vivian? What's wrong? Did you remember something?"
"I was here. Before. With you. And Elena." My voice came out strange—shaky and uncertain and full of something I couldn't name. "We sang this song together. The three of us. You were on my left. She was on my right. She was laughing because I kept singing the second verse wrong."
Sophie's face went very still. "That was four years ago. Before Alexander. Before everything fell apart. It was your birthday. You said it was the best birthday you'd ever had."
"I remember." I pressed my hand to my chest, where my heart was beating too fast. "I remember her laugh. I remember the way she looked at me. I remember—" My voice broke. "I remember being happy. The three of us. We were so happy."
Sophie was crying now. Silent tears sliding down her face. "That's your first memory. Since the accident. It's Elena."
"It's both of you." I looked at her, and the memory was still there, fragile and bright, a flame that could go out any second if I breathed too hard. "You were my family. Both of you. Before anyone else. Before Lucas. Before Kevin. Before I built the walls."
"The walls came after. After Alexander. After Elena disappeared. You never sang karaoke again."
I looked at the screen, where the song had ended and was waiting for the next selection. "Can we—" I paused. "Can we play it again? The same song?"
"You want to sing it again?"
"I want to remember it again."
Sophie restarted the song without a word.
We sang "Dancing Queen" three more times that night. The first time, I cried. The second time, Sophie cried. The third time, Kevin joined in with the harmony, and Lucas—who had not moved from his spot near the door—clapped quietly when we finished, his ears glowing a soft, luminous pink.
"That was your first memory," he said as we were packing up to leave.
"It was a good one."
"It was a very good one."
"I still don't remember everything. I don't remember us. The six years you've been counting."
"You will." His voice was steady. "Or you won't. But you'll make new ones. You're already making new ones."
"I sang off-key."
"You always sing off-key. It's one of the things I—" He stopped.
"One of the things you what?"
His ears went from pink to red. "One of the things I've documented. In my records. For reference."
"Your records include my vocal accuracy?"
"My records include everything. It's what I do."
"That's not why you document."
He didn't answer. But his ears went burgundy, and the corner of his mouth did the almost-smile thing, and that was answer enough.