The same white room.
The same surgical blue light, now softer, almost intimate.
The Doll—no, the daughter—lay on the padded table with the electrodes removed. Her skin had been wiped clean. A faint trace of Mia's favorite vanilla-and-oud perfume had been dabbed behind her ears. The platinum hair, still damp from the quick rinse, curled against the pillow exactly the way Mia's used to when she was small.
Maman sat on the low stool beside her.
She wore the beige cardigan again. The cashmere looked softer under this light, almost like a blanket. One hand rested in her lap; the other stroked the clone's cheek with the slow, absent tenderness of someone who had done this a thousand times before.
Thumb brushing the cheekbone.
Fingertips tracing the line of the jaw.
The same gesture she had used when Mia was six and terrified of thunderstorms. The same gesture she had used when Mia was sixteen and needed to smile for the cameras even though her ribs were bruised.
The clone's eyelids fluttered.
Maman smiled. It was small, private, the kind of smile that never reached the press.
"There you are," she whispered.
The girl's eyes opened. They were the exact shade of emerald-green the world had fallen in love with. For a moment they were unfocused, swimming. Then they found Maman's face and something clicked into place behind them.
Recognition.
Obedience.
Love.
Maman leaned closer. Her voice stayed gentle, almost lullaby-soft.
"Alice… my sweet girl."
She brushed a strand of hair behind the clone's ear, the way she used to when Mia tried to hide a panic attack backstage.
"You've been gone too long. But you're home now."
The clone's lips parted. A tiny breath. A tiny sound that might have been a name.
Maman's thumb kept moving, slow circles on the warm cheek.
"It's time to find your sister," she murmured. "She's lost. She doesn't understand yet. But you will bring her back to us. You always do."
The clone's eyes filled with something that looked exactly like devotion.
Maman kept smiling.
Behind the smile, her own eyes were dry, clear, and perfectly calm.
The pattern had taken.
Perfect.
Seamless.
Another daughter ready to be useful.
She leaned down and pressed a kiss to the clone's forehead, the same way she had kissed Mia the night before the big stadium show.
"Rest a little longer," she said. "Then we'll get you dressed. The world is waiting for Alice again."
Maman stood.
The cashmere cardigan settled around her shoulders like a second skin.
She did not look back as she walked toward the door.
Behind her, the clone's lips curved into the small, perfect, heartbreaking smile that had once sold out arenas in under three minutes.
The machine had already begun to breathe.