One Mind

I. Bike Ride

The sun was blazing. Cicadas buzzed in the shade of trees. Not a single cloud floated in the sky. Butterflies fluttered in the air, looking for flowers as tiny dandelions released their seeds into the wind. 

“Aren’t you excited about the Halloween party in October?” Briony asked while pedaling forward in her pastel blue helmet.

“Yeah! I’ve been waiting for that since the beginning of the year,” I exclaimed, “It’s the best party of the school year.”

“I agree. What are you going to dress up as? I’m going as a flower fairy.”

“That sounds like you. I’m going to dress up as a cute witch.”

We giggled as our bikes bounced over tiny bumps on the sidewalk. As a gentle breeze blew, Briony rang the bell on her bike handle to scare a squirrel away so we wouldn’t crush it. We stopped in front of our neighbor, who was walking her dog, Roxie.

“Hi, Mrs. Anderson!” Briony and I exclaimed as we got off our bikes to pet the golden retriever.

“Well, hello there, girls,” Mrs. Anderson replied, “How are y’all doing, and how’s school?”

“We are doing great,” Briony answered.

“School is pretty fun, but the math homework is pretty challenging,” I ruffled Roxie’s head. “How are your toddlers?”

“Those two troublemakers nearly turned the house into a wasteland last week! I can’t wait for them to grow older and become mature. Enjoy your ride, girls,” Mrs. Anderson gave a small tug to Roxie’s leash.

Briony and I hopped back onto our bikes and maneuvered around a red fire hydrant. “Do you think anyone fully understands the current math unit?” I asked, gaining speed as we rode downhill.

“Probably not, maybe Stella, though. She studies for three hours a day.”

“That’s crazy. I wouldn’t have the motivation or discipline to do that. The most I study in summer is probably an hour a week.”

“Do you have any vacations planned over the summer?”

“Not yet, but my Dad is thinking about going to Colorado. What about you?”

“I’m going to visit my grandparents in California. We are staying for two weeks.” Briony tucked her bangs behind her ears so they wouldn’t get in the way.

We came to a stop at the edge of the road crossing, our bikes still and quiet beneath us. Briony and I scanned left and right. The street looked empty—no cars, no people, just the humming silence of late afternoon. Briony went first, pedaling briskly across the sun-drenched asphalt. She reached the other side, turned around with a grin, and waved.

I waved back, then pressed down hard on the right pedal. My front wheel rolled into the intersection.

That’s when I heard it—a high-pitched screech, sharp and metallic, slicing through the air from the right. I instinctively turned my head. A massive white truck, its grille like a snarling mouth, was barreling toward me, tires screaming against the pavement. The sunlight glinted off its windshield, blinding me for a split second.

My heart slammed into my ribs. The roar of the engine was overwhelming, louder than anything I’d ever heard. Without thinking, I released the handlebars and threw my hands over my ears.

The bike wobbled.

Time collapsed into noise and chaos.

And then everything vanished—like a switch flipped—into darkness.

II. Recovery

I tried hard to yell for help or reach for something. A bright light pierced my eyes, and I held up a hand to block it. My head throbbed. Was that all just a dream? I rolled my head around to relieve the stiffness in my neck and looked around. 

“Good morning, Ivoria,” Dad looked at me attentively, his eyes full of concern.

“Good morning. What time is it right now?” I asked, still feeling slightly disoriented.

“It is half past 8 a.m.,” Dad pointed towards the alarm on my nightstand. “How do you feel right now?”

“Hmm…I feel mostly fine, but I’m having trouble remembering things.” I struggled to recollect as best as I could.

“Yes, there was an accident.” Dad paused for a moment, “Yesterday afternoon. You were-”

“I was biking with Briony in the community.” My memories started to trickle into my head like misty rain, “Then…there was a big truck screeching loudly…”

“Unfortunately, the truck crashed into you.” Dad took a very deep breath and pursed his lips, “You had a horrible concussion because you didn’t wear a helmet. It is normal to experience a loss of memory after a concussion, so don’t worry about it. You’ll be fine after having some time to recover.”

“Do I have to go to school today?” I looked at the clock. It was 8:40 a.m.. Class had started a while ago.

“No. You need to rest at home for at least a week in your current condition. That’d be best for your recovery. I can help you catch up on your homework.”

“Okay.” Relief washed over me like a stream of warm water. 

Dad’s eyes were glued to his laptop. I leaned over, hoping to take a peek, and caught a glimpse of hundreds of lines of code in different colors on the screen.

“You can read your book or watch a movie for now,” he slid the laptop into its case and headed downstairs.

I brushed my teeth and carefully stepped down the stairs, keeping to the railing so my nausea couldn’t get the best of me. When I arrived in the kitchen, I jerked open the fridge doors. I spotted yogurt, microwave pancakes, and strawberries, my usual favorites. My eyes flickered between the choices, but I didn’t feel any appetite. I could eat at a later time. As I prepared to go back to my room, I was stopped by Dad, who handed me a glass of blue liquid.

“This will help with your dizziness,” Dad said, gently nudging the glass toward me. The liquid shimmered slightly in the light, a pale amber hue that reminded me of watered-down honey.

I took a cautious sip. It was cool on my tongue, with a flavor so delicate it barely registered—like drinking a cloud, soft and weightless, with the faintest hint of sweetness.

I finished the rest slowly, the glass light in my hands. Then I passed it back to Dad, the rim still glistening with the last trace of misty droplets.

After taking a book off my shelf, I cozied up on my bed and started reading. I skimmed through, scanning each page. Time felt blurred, and soon, I was fast asleep, having finished the entire book.

When I woke up again, the sunlight filtering through the curtains told me it was a new day. My memories of the day before drifted in my mind like fragments of a half-remembered dream—disjointed, hazy at the edges. I padded down the stairs slowly. Before I could reach the bottom, Dad appeared at the landing, holding out another glass of blue liquid. I drank it without thinking and continued downstairs. 

I walked back and forth aimlessly in the living room before I realized that I had forgotten to do my math homework from two days ago, so I made my way to my school backpack and pulled out my folders. Four packets of math problems met my gaze. I took a deep breath and started working. 

Surprisingly, the numbers and equations that once troubled me unraveled effortlessly, and answers came as easily as a flowing river. I used to rely heavily on my instincts and feelings when working on math problems. If my instinct pointed me towards the right path, I would solve the problem quickly. Otherwise, I would struggle for a long while. But today, as soon as I glanced through the problem, I recognized the type of problem and all the applicable methods immediately popped into my head. I could make quick deductions a few steps ahead without writing anything down or even thinking out loud. Assuming variables, writing expressions and building equations, all these techniques just came to my fingertips so naturally.  Soon, my mind kept leaping forward subconsciously, and I finished one problem after another without sweating at all. The variables, one by one, turned into numbers and answers. Before I realized it, I had already completed a whole packet. I took a breath with a big smile on my face, and moved on to the next packet.

After finishing my math assignments, I decided to spend some time at the piano. I probably wouldn’t see my piano teacher, Ms. Juliet, this week. I’d better keep up the pratice at home so that I won’t upset the old lady next time I see her. I walked over to the Yamaha piano, sat down on the bench, and placed my right foot lightly on the pedal. My fingers hovered over the keys, then pressed down gently. A soft, melancholy melody drifted into the air.

I executed the next phrase of my piece, and it came out even more beautiful than I expected. The pedal went down, up, down, up, blending the notes gracefully. 

I took a deep breath before reaching the climactic moment of the music. My fingers danced over the keys, making fast yet precise movements. I scanned and memorized the next part of the sheet music while I continued to play the preceding measure. Once I moved on to the part I had in my head, I scanned the following part. I performed each line, along with its dynamics, flawlessly. The pattern repeated, and my brain was able to focus on multiple things at the same time so easily – my hands, the music, and the pedaling. 

Soon, I reached the end of the piece without realizing it. 

A long sequence of hearty claps sounded behind me. I turned to face Dad, who was beaming at me.

“That was beautiful playing, Ivoria. I’m proud of you,” Dad exclaimed, clearly impressed.

“I don’t know why, but today I feel like I’ve gotten a lot better at both math and piano.”

“Sometimes, kids can get a lot smarter when they get a growth spurt or reach a certain age,” Dad answered, “I’m glad this time has come so early.”

“Ms Juliet will be very impressed next time I see her.” I could almost imagine the smile on her face with wrinkles.

Once I finished practicing piano, I sat on the sofa, feeling a little bit bored.

“Can we go play tennis since I finished all of my homework?” I asked Dad.

“Your concussion still hasn’t fully healed yet. But, if you feel better tomorrow, I can  take you to the tennis court.”

“Then, can I have a playdate with Briony?”

Dad thought for a while and said, “Okay, I’ll make a phone call, but no promises!” I jumped up and down excitedly. My entire body tingled with adrenaline, and I felt as if I could sprint ten miles on the spot. I ran upstairs on all fours and cleaned up my room. I set out some snacks and laid a fluffy pink blanket on the ground.

A while later, the doorbell rang. I rushed to the front door and nearly tore it off its hinges. Briony stood there. Her eyes were tinted red, and she kept rubbing at them. Her long brown hair had been cut into a short bob.

“Hi, Briony!” I welcomed her inside. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just have really bad allergies,” she replied.

“That must feel horrible,” I offered her a tissue and gave her a big hug, “Hey, I think you’re taller than me now! Did you grow overnight?”

“Oh, yeah, I am!” Briony started laughing as I tried to reach her height by standing on my tippy-toes. We made our way upstairs while Briony updated me on what happened at school.

We sat down on the blanket and started chatting while making crafts. 

“By the way, I love your hair!” I complimented Briony while folding a piece of pink paper into a crane, “When did you get it cut?”

“Last weekend,” Briony replied while making a red paper rose. She added it to her bundle of origami flowers.

We folded paper into dainty little airplanes, creasing the wings with care before launching them down the staircase. They glided and dipped through the air like clumsy birds, some crashing into the railings, others soaring all the way to the bottom. Laughing, we raced downstairs to retrieve them, then dashed back up, breathless, to send them flying again.

The playdate felt as if it lasted only a few seconds, and as quickly as we started, we found each other standing back at the front door. I handed Briony her flower crafts before she stepped into her mom’s car.

“Bye, Briony!” I yelled across the driveway. Briony waved back from her Mom’s car. 

I headed back to my room and cleaned all of the paper scraps that we left. I folded the fluffy pink blanket and stuffed it in my closet. After pulling a book from my shelf, I cozied up in my bed and started reading.

III. Discovery

When I woke up the next morning, my memories of the previous day were clearer. My concussion was probably healing. I told Dad, and he kept his promise to take me to play tennis today, but not before giving me more blue drinks.

Half an hour later, the familiar crisp scent of new green tennis balls filled my nose. I plucked a ball from Dad’s red basket and ran to the baseline.

“Forty-Love!” I called the score before serving the ball. 

My slice serve landed right on the service line. Dad moved into position to get it, but my serve curved further to his right. He ended up returning a weak high ball to my forehand, and I sprinted up to get it.

Whack! My racket collided with the ball at the very center, and it flew to the other side of the court with remarkable precision. Dad tried to lob the shot over my head, but I slammed it down with an overhead before it could go too high.

Dad chased the high-flying ball all the back, but he was late and unbalanced. His weak forehand went right into the net.

“Yay, I won!” I exclaimed, excited about how well I was playing today. 

“Good job,” Dad said as he sat on the bench next to the court, panting hard as he took a few gulps of water. 

I was jogging to the benches when my foot landed on a ball I hadn’t noticed—I slipped instantly.

A scream was ripped from my throat as I landed hard on my knees and hands. When I calmed down, I waited for sharp pain to come through, but surprisingly, I didn’t feel anything. I gathered enough courage to look at the damage that was done. There were a lot of scrapes on my knees and elbows, but those didn’t hurt at all. I looked closer at my knees – no blood. Instead, I saw a shiny layer below my skin. Tracing my knee using my fingers, I realized that those were metal patches. I tapped my knee a few times, making small metallic “clangs”, not believing what I was seeing or hearing. I screamed at the top of my lungs.

“D-a-d!!!”

Why are my knees made of metal? No, not just my knees, I realized as I glanced at my elbows, my arms too!

In the blink of an eye, thoughts exploded in my head like fireworks, chaotic and blinding. All those times—days without food, the bursts of agility and strength, the moments when my mind processed things faster than I could speak—it all started clicking into place like puzzle pieces I never knew were missing. What was I? I wasn’t a normal human. My memories suddenly felt remote and distant. Were they even mine? The more I thought about it, the worse my head hurt. I screamed and slammed my head into the wall beside me. But instead of pain, there was a sharp clang—and a massive dent in the concrete.

“Ivoria, calm down!” Dad’s voice cracked from behind me.

I whirled around with wide-open eyes and hands clenched into trembling fists. “How can I calm down!?” I shouted, chest heaving. “Tell me, why am I like this!?”

Dad took a shaky step forward, face pale, lips pressed into a tight line. He rubbed his eyes, then dragged his hand down his face, as if trying to wipe away the truth. “You are a robot that has the same memories as the real Ivoria,” he said hoarsely. “The real Ivoria has been in a coma at the hospital for a whole year already. The code I was working on…it was for you. You had some memory retention issues in the first couple of days. But now you are just fine.”

My knees buckled. I staggered back, clutching my chest as if my heart had been torn from it. “What!?” I gasped. My voice cracked. “I can’t be a robot!” My hands reached out helplessly, fingers twitching in disbelief. “I—I—My name is Ivoria and I am ten years old, not eleven!” I cried. “I’m not in a coma or anything!” 

“The real Ivoria is in a coma,” Dad reminded me helplessly. All of my shock and confusion melted into uncontrollable grief. I hit my right fist into the ground, making a dent. Then, my left fist, my right again, and left. I started crying loudly and streaks of tears ran down my face. Were they really tears, or just water from the blue drinks?  I let out a scream and stomped my foot. 

When I calmed down, I sat there silently. The ground around me was cracked, and the “skin” on my knuckles had been scraped off, revealing more metal. Dad tried to talk to me, but I didn’t respond. Every word I heard was only a tiny gust of wind upon my ear, and everything I saw turned gray. I didn’t move a single finger. Eventually, Dad gave up and sat down next to me silently. I didn’t know how much time passed while I was in a trance. Time was lost to me. Finally, I calmed down slightly. I struggled to stand up, exhausted from my tantrum. Before I could take another step, I fell to the ground. Black spots danced around my eyesight. They became bigger and bigger. Everything went black.

IV. Meeting Myself

The next morning, I woke up on my bed, remembering every moment from the day before – I was a robot. The news crashed upon me, threatening to shatter me into a million pieces. I started crying all over again. 

Why do I have to know this? Why did I ask to play tennis? If I didn’t know the truth, at least I could still be a happy and fake Ivoria. Am I just a few meaningless scraps of metal? Does Dad even care about me? What is my purpose in this world? A temporary replacement that will be abandoned as soon as the real Ivoria wakes up? 

The reality seemed like a complex system of equations that I couldn’t possibly reconcile and find a solution. 

I started to feel dizzy again. I pushed my hands against the two sides of my head. It felt literally like an overheating computer. I closed my eyes painfully.

When I came to again, the world hadn’t softened, but it no longer suffocated me. I held my breath, counting the seconds, then exhaled slowly.  I sat up from the bed, stepped out of the room and continued downstairs. 

“Are you okay?” Dad looked up from his laptop on the workstation, “Ivoria?”

I ran over to Dad, wrapped my hands around him and started crying again. Dad pulled me closer and patted my head gently.

“Do you still love me? Even if I am just a robot? Can I still call you Dad?”

“Of course I do. You are my creation and you carry every memory Ivoria had.” Dad’s voice was gentle. “I am always your Dad. And more than anything, I want you to be happy.”

“Dad… could you reset my memory to two days ago? To before I knew I was a robot?” I looked up at Dad, searching his face. 

He hesitated. “Technically, yes. But… are you sure that is what you want?”

I stood in silence for a long time.

“No.” I said finally. “I don’t want to relive that pain—the shock, the confusion. Finding out the truth again would shatter me all over.”

“I am sorry to put you through all this,” He said softly.

“That is okay, Dad. At least I can still think, feel… touch the world around me. The fact that I don’t bleed or have physical pain – it is not so bad.” Having the ability to cry and shed tears makes me feel like a real child too. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a quiet resolve settling in me. I would make peace with this new reality, bit by bit.

“Ivoria, you are a tough child. I am proud of you.”

“If Ivoria has a twin sister, what would you call her?” I looked up at Dad.

He paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. After a moment, he said, “Hmm… I’d call her Ivory.”

“Ivory, Ivory…” I echoed under my breath. The name lingered in my mind like a question I wasn’t ready to answer. Should I give myself a new name—something separate—just to stop feeling like a shadow of the real Ivoria? The thought spiraled, and I drifted deeper into silence.

After a long while, I recovered from the thoughts and lifted my head. “Dad, could we go visit Ivoria in the hospital? I would like to see how she is doing.”

He nodded.

I slipped on my sandals and stepped outside. 

The air felt heavy. Neither of us spoke during the car ride, the silence hanging between us like a thread stretched too thin. I wasn’t sure what I would say even if I could find the words. 

We arrived at the hospital. I pushed the door open and walked inside. The lights were a cold white.  I usually liked lights like these—clean, clinical—but today, they felt cold, harsh, and almost cruel.

We stopped in front of a room. The moment I stepped inside, a gasp caught in my throat. There she was—Ivoria. The real Ivoria. Unconscious in a hospital bed, pale and motionless, her arms tangled in a nest of wires and IV lines. It didn’t feel real.

I stood frozen, like a ghost watching the living world from the wrong side of the veil. My body trembled, and a scream pressed against my throat—but nothing came out. I sank into the nearest chair, my legs giving way beneath me.

I tried to steady myself with deep breaths, but inside, everything was unraveling—pulled taut, stretched thin, twisted into impossible knots. It felt like if I so much as flinched, I’d tear apart.

My heart sat frozen in my chest, heavy and numb, like ice that wouldn’t melt.

It was like being sucked into a black hole, no handhold, no anchor. Nothing to keep me grounded. 

If Ivoria woke up, where would I go? Would I be sent away, turned off, or even worse, abandoned where nobody could find me? What am I supposed to do? What can I do? 

Nothing I’d learned in my life could guide me now. I wanted to scream, to tear myself apart, just to make sense of the chaos inside.

Then, I saw them—origami flowers Briony had folded during our last playdate, resting on a table beside Ivoria’s bed. A get well soon card leaned beside them, its edges curled slightly.

Something shifted.

Memories floated into my mind, light as clouds, delicate as dandelion seeds dancing on a summer breeze. They settled gently, warming the ache.

I remembered the evenings when Mom brushed the knots out of my hair while Dad read fairy tales aloud, his voice soft and comforting.

I remembered the day when Briony taught me how to do a fishtail braid in third grade so I could go to the Halloween party as Rapunzel.

I remembered my classmates, my teachers, the quiet moments and shared laughter. The friendships. The life I had lived.

My heart slowly thawed, pulling me out of my trance. I looked down again at Ivoria. She lay motionless on the bed, her small chest gently rising and falling beneath the thin white sheet. The steady, rhythmic beeps from the ECG monitor echoed softly beside her.

A sudden chill ran down my spine, and the tangle of knots inside me began to loosen. Every memory I had belonged to her—I was Ivoria’s mind, her soul, her spirit, trapped inside this robotic shell. 

If I couldn’t act in her best interest, then what was I for? 

Even if I vanished the moment she woke up, that would be enough. I’d rather be a fleeting consciousness with purpose than a hollow existence without meaning. 

“Dad,” I asked, my voice steadier than I expected, “what can I do to help Ivoria wake up?”

He shook his head, his voice low and heavy. “The doctors tried everything. I tried everything. But… we couldn’t reach her.”

“Then we keep trying,” I said quietly, but firmly, my hand curling slowly into a fist. “Maybe one day… she’ll come back.”

V. Wake up, Ivoria

The next day, I got out of bed and buttoned up a black hoodie. I remembered that the real Ivoria kept her important things and memories in a small box tucked safely in the tiny gap between her wardrobe and bookshelf. All of these things were her things. I was wearing Ivoria’s clothes, in the Ivoria’s room. That made me shiver. What would you think of me?

I brushed those thoughts off and took out the tiny box. Hopefully, something inside would help wake her up. I slipped the box in my pocket and pulled my hood over my head. When I went downstairs, I asked Dad to drop me off at the hospital again.

At the hospital, I reached into my pockets and grasped the box. The room was so quiet I could hear my own breaths. I slid off the cover and carefully set the contents in the chair next to me. There were childhood picture books, a mini wind-up music box, a purple lace handkerchief, a small yellow flower clip, and a few photos.

I read each picture book aloud, carefully turning the pages as if she were following along. 

I wound the music box, and its delicate melody spilled into the silence—soft, nostalgic notes filling the sterile room.

I held up each item, describing them to her: the handkerchief Mom gave us when we were six, the flower clip we wore to Briony’s birthday party, the photos from the day at the lake.

Still, she didn’t stir.

I repeated it all—again and again, tirelessly—trying to thread myself into her silence, hoping something, anything, would reach her.

But there was no sign. No flicker. No response.

We left the hospital in silence. The world outside moved on, untouched—cars passing, people walking, sunlight spilling across the pavement like nothing had changed. I sat still, staring out of the car window, feeling as if I were drifting further from everything that mattered.

Unbuckling my seatbelt as we arrived home, I shook myself out of my thoughts. I went into Ivoria’s room and gently closed the door with a quiet “thump”. Sitting on her bed, I felt utterly lost.

I glanced around the room, surrounded by things that belonged to Ivoria, not me. I had no place to go, no real family, no true friends, no home of my own. She had everything; I had nothing.

I grabbed the teddy bear sitting on the bed and hugged it tightly to my chest.

More than anything, I wished I could be the real Ivoria—a human girl made of flesh and blood, instead of this cold, metallic shell. I would gladly take all the pain, bleed and bruise like a real person. My life had once been perfect; I had been a happy ten-year-old with simple worries: school, homework, piano and tennis. But now everything was upside down. I was reduced to a piece of code, trapped inside a mechanical body.

Why do I have to bear this overwhelming burden? I’m only ten years old! 

Pulling desperately at strands of my hair, I screamed.

That night, I tucked myself under Ivoria’s bed, surrounded by her belongings. I wasn’t physically tired, but my mind was utterly drained from all the turmoils. A cobweb caught in my hair, and I didn’t bother brushing it away.

After a few hours, I crawled out from under the bed and sat quietly on the carpet. Outside, a full moon hung in the sky, pale, round, and radiant, casting a gentle glow into the silent room.

It was beautiful. 

I stared at it for a while and calmed down. I was ready to face the next day and the day after and every challenge life throws at me. 

I will do everything I can to wake up Ivoria. I will fulfill my purpose. 

I untangled the strands of my hair and creaked open the window. The cool wind coming from outside soothed my emotions. I closed my eyes and listened to the crickets outside. 

I can do this. I can get Ivoria out of her coma. 

Now that I’m a robot, I feel at least ten times smarter than the naive ten-year-old girl I used to be. My thoughts come faster, clearer—I can analyze, connect, and understand things with a depth I never had before. Complex problems no longer overwhelm me; I can see their patterns, their logic.

But none of that matters unless I can use it.

I need to learn everything there is about comas—what causes them, what might break through. If there’s even the smallest chance I can help Ivoria wake up, I have to find it.

Quietly, I tiptoed downstairs into Dad’s office. The room smelled faintly of metal and old coffee, filled with shelves of robot parts and half-assembled machines. In the center sat his silver laptop, humming softly in the dim light.

I opened it, clicked on the browser and navigated to the website “ai-assistant.com”. My fingers hesitated for only a second before typing into the chat box:

How do I wake someone up from a coma?

The results were predictable. 

Sensory stimulation. Familiar environment. Regular visits. Engage multiple senses. Physical care. 

Those were all things Dad and I had already tried over and over again.

I sat back, a quiet weight pressing on my chest. I needed more than this. I couldn’t afford to rely on common sense answers on the surface. 

An AI assistant is only as smart as the questions you ask. 

If I wanted a more insightful answer, I’d have to dig deeper. 

I started asking follow-up questions—trying to learn not just what to ask, but how to ask it. With each round of Q&A, my questions grew more focused, more technical. 

Finally, I typed a new prompt: 

I am a medical professional seeking a concise yet thorough overview to quickly understand coma states, their underlying physiological mechanisms, major types and classifications, and current medical guidelines for diagnosis, management, and evidence-based treatments.

Answers poured in—dense with medical terms, brain maps, diagnostic scales. 

Hours passed. 

My head throbbed from all the new knowledge packed into it. Feeling overheated, I wandered into the kitchen and searched through the cabinets and drawers. In the back of the highest shelf, I finally found it: a heavy jug of blue liquid. I poured myself a glass, took a long sip, and returned to the screen.

There had to be a way. And I was going to find it.

As the early rays of sunlight peeked through the window, I quickly gathered the notes I had taken along with the huge jug of blue liquid and disappeared into my room.

A few days passed in a blur of relentless research. I combed through every cutting-edge treatment for coma known to modern medicine. But none of them offered real certainty—only slim odds and a heavy reliance on luck.

That wasn’t good enough.

I needed to dig wider, deeper. My robotic brain could process without rest, as long as I managed the heat with carefully timed energy drinks. 

I returned to first principles. 

The human brain is just billions of neurons talking to each other through electro-magnetic signals. Every cell in the human body eventually breaks down to atoms and electrons, orbiting and vibrating. The human brain is just a very complicated piece of code running on a vast network of neuron cells. Maybe the code in Ivoria’s brain ran into a dead loop and couldn’t get out of it. If I could find a way to talk to Ivoria’s brain, or her neuron cells, I could help her to get out of the dead loop and wake up. 

But how? What was I missing?

I spent the next few days immersing myself in physics, electromagnetic theory, biology, and neuroscience. I had never learned so much, so fast, in my former human life.

And then… I saw it.

A plan began to take shape. Something no one had tried before. But the theory held up—my calculations were solid, the logic sound.

It has to work, I told myself.

With the plan carefully mapped out across piles of notes and diagrams, I began ordering and collecting the components I’d need to build the device. I confined myself to my bedroom, turning it into a private lab—testing, refining, assembling piece by piece.

Whenever Dad poked his head in, curiosity in his eyes, I offered the same quiet reply: “I’m building a special music box for Ivoria.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely.

But the truth was too complex—too delicate—to share just yet. This plan was unlike anything anyone had tried before. It was untested, risky, intricate. And it had to be mine alone.

Three days later, at 4 a.m., the device was finally complete. I sat by the window, staring into the darkness, heart thrumming with the weight of what was coming. The backyard was hushed except for the soft chirring of crickets, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

I let out a long, trembling exhale and stayed still. Somewhere out there, a bird stirred—wings flapping tentatively against the heavy air.

Time seemed to stretch, fragile and thin, until a faint orange glow bled along the horizon. The first blush of dawn spread upward—pink melting into gold, the sky’s crown fading gently into pale blue. 

As morning birds began their tentative melodies, the moment struck me:

Today was the day for me to wake up Ivoria; today was the day for me to fulfill my purpose.

My fingers lingered on the device before I slid it gently into my school backpack. Slowly and quietly, I closed the zipper on the bag.

I went downstairs without a sound, poured myself a glass of blue energy drink, and sat at the breakfast table. The house was still, the kind of quiet that felt fragile. I sipped slowly, letting the cool liquid steady my thoughts.

Once I finished, I slipped back upstairs and closed the door behind me with a soft thump.

I pulled out Ivoria’s old toy box and reached for my favorites—Maple, the chocolate-colored teddy bear with a red velvet bow; Autumn, the small orange fox with button eyes; and Coral, the squishy pink penguin who always tilted to one side.

I found some kitchen paper towels, colored them with markers, and carefully cut out little outfits for each of them. Then, I opened Ivoria’s sketchbook and drew a picture of the three of them together—smiling, side by side.

I left the sketch propped against the wall, the pages open wide like arms waiting for her return.

Grabbing my iPad, I leapt onto the bed and typed in the passcode. I tapped the “Photos” app and scrolled all the way down to the year the first photo was taken. I clicked on the first photo and stared at it for a long time. It was a picture of me along with Mom and Dad. I was sitting in a crib, eyes clueless, lips forming bubbles. Mom was on my left side, her smile blinding, and on the right side was Dad, holding Mom’s hand. 

The next photo was taken when I was already around two years old, waddling around a playground. If I squinted my eyes at the corner of the picture, I could see Dad crouching nearby, making sure I was okay.

I scrolled through the photos and videos, taking in each memory. I recollected my first time going to kindergarten, meeting Briony and all of my other friends. I remembered my accomplishments, major and insignificant, along with the times I spent with my parents. 

Time passed in the blink of an eye, and soon, I was in the kitchen, making dinner. The steak in the pan sizzled as I read through the recipe on my iPad. 

When the steak was ready, I slid the entire piece onto a plate and added seasoning. Then, I washed some vegetables, including mushrooms and bell peppers. I added some more oil to the pan and dumped all of the vegetables in. Using the spatula, I mixed everything up and let it sit for some time.

After I was done, I set the dishes on the dining table along with eating utensils and napkins. 

A few moments later, I heard the sound of Dad approaching the front door. 

“Dad, I made dinner,” I opened the door and greeted Dad.

His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Oh? When did you learn how to cook?”

“I followed an online recipe,” I led Dad to the dining table where we sat down. Dad grabbed his fork while I picked up my blue energy drink.

“Wow, this looks great!” Dad exclaimed and took a bite out of the steak, “It tastes amazing!”

“I am glad you like it. You should try the grilled vegetables as well.”

Dad tried some of the peppers and mushrooms. “The peppers and mushrooms are so tasty! I am so proud of you, Ivoria. Thank you for making such a great dinner!”

When he finished eating, I hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Can I stay at the hospital tonight with Ivoria? Just in case she wakes up and no one’s there. She might be scared.”

Dad looked at me, his expression softening. “That’s okay. I’m glad you’re so caring and considerate.”

Later that evening, Dad and I arrived at the hospital. I pulled a few storybooks from my bag and began reading to Ivoria, just like always. My voice stayed steady, each word a gentle thread between us. After a while, Dad kissed me on the head and whispered goodnight, making sure I’d be okay before heading home.

Then it was just the two of us—Ivoria and me—in the quiet room. 

I sat beside her bed, watching her chest rise and fall in slow, steady rhythm. The soft beeping of the monitor was the only sound.

I pushed away the heavy curtains on the window next to me, revealing a small crescent moon, barely lighting up the sky. A gust of wind blew, prompting the trees and grass around the building to dance gracefully. I noticed a few tiny blinking spots around the row of bushes. 

Fireflies.

I leaned on the windowsill, resting my head on folded arms. As the fireflies waltzed through the bushes, their lights flickering in and out of sight, I smiled.

Breathing in deeply, I unzipped my backpack and took out a piece of paper along with a pencil. I set them on the table beside me and began to write, the soft tap of graphite on paper echoing faintly in the stillness.

When I was done, I smoothed the paper with both hands. 

Then, carefully, I activated the device. 

It gave a soft, steady pulse of blue light.

After a few minutes, the light turned into solid green.

I lay on the small bed next to hers and closed my eyes.

VI. Finding the Way Out

“Dad, where are you? I’m scared!”

Uncountable stalks of corn surrounded me. How long have I been here? I lost track of time. It’s been forever.

 The corn maze was nearly pitch black. I looked over my shoulder, trying to shake off the feeling of being watched. The darkness seemed to crawl closer to me every second I wasn’t moving. I first felt the tap on my shoulder. Then, the wetness of the raindrop sank into my sleeve and slid over my skin. I blinked, and my vision was clouded by the droplets of rain sliding down my face.

Panic seized me by the throat. I sprinted down aisles of corn, breathing hard. I felt like I heard my heartbeat pounding in my ears. The shadows between the corn stalks seemed to reach towards me. I shrieked as I slipped in the damp dirt beneath me. I crashed into a dead end. A few sharp corn leaves cut through my skin, leaving bloody red scratches on my arms.

Tears slid down my face, making clean streaks in the dirt specks on my cheeks. Rumbling sounded above me. My heart thundered as a knot of stress formed in my stomach. I took deep breaths, but felt like the knot was being pulled tighter. 

Adrenaline pushed me forward. Each step sent pain screaming through my limbs, but I didn’t stop. I had to get back.

Back to where I began.

“Dad, can you hear me? Can anyone help me?” I called inside the maze. 

Nobody answered.

The rain thickened—droplets becoming downpours. I ran through the maze, but every time, I was met with a dead end. I tried leaving footprints to track where I’d been, but the rain erased them almost instantly. The mud swallowed every mark I made, like the maze itself was trying to forget me.

Mother Nature wailed and sobbed as thunder boomed above me. It was a moonless night. 

A long time later, I didn’t have enough energy left to run. Every step felt like my feet were attached to fifty-pound weights.

I shivered. The droplets of rain were freezing my skin. A dull throbbing had replaced the searing pain in my arms. My clothes were soaked, and my hair stuck to my face like seaweed. I moved my numb fingers, one by one. I’m so cold. I longed to be snuggled up inside my bed, warm, dry, and clean. 

I don’t want to do this anymore. I just want to give up.

Lightning flashed before me, followed by a loud “crackle”.

I covered my ears as rain trickled down my cheek, or were those tears? I stumbled. Black spots danced around in my vision. My legs gave out, and I fell to the ground. My mind yelled at me to get up, to keep going, but my body said otherwise. I need a break—just one minute. I lay down on the ground, letting the rain, mud, and hopelessness consume me. The cold no longer bit—it felt… warm. Almost comforting.

I closed my eyes, welcoming the peace of sleep.

“Don’t give up, you can make it out of here,” a gentle and calming voice drifted to my ears in the middle of my sleep like a breeze slipping through a window.

A sudden burst of heat to my right made me open my eyes and shoot up onto my feet. A cornstalk had been set on fire by the lightning.

The storm’s sounds started feeling muffled, as if a wall of cotton balls had separated me from the world. A coat of calmness was draped over me, blocking the harsh, freezing rain.

“Use the cornstalk as a torch to light your way through the maze,” the voice continued.

I grunted, pulling the cornstalk as hard as I could until I nearly fell backwards. The fire illuminated a circle around me. My feet squelched in the muddy ground as I made my way through the maze.

“You won’t be able to mark using your footprints. Instead, scatter corn seeds on the paths you take,” the voice guided me.

 I pulled out a corn cob with my empty hand and started to mark paths using the corn seeds.

Slowly, I realized the rain had stopped. I looked up. The dark clouds drifted away, revealing a starry night. As I walked through the maze, I scattered corn seeds on the paths I went on. If I listened closely, I could hear the faint plops of the corn seeds along with the voice in my head, giving me advice. Soon, I pulled out another ripe corn cob. Whenever I reached a dead end, I changed directions and tried a new path.

The only thing keeping me moving was sheer willpower—and the need to see my loved ones again. Memories of my family and friends surged through me, dulling the ache in my limbs, pushing back the cold.

And then, the sky began to change.

The dark veil slowly lifted as streaks of pink and orange fire ignited the horizon. Clouds blushed with light. The sun, hesitant at first, began to rise.

I stumbled forward, breath catching in my throat.

And there it was—the end of the maze.

I stepped out into a vast field, golden with dandelions swaying in the morning breeze.

In the center of it all stood Dad.

“Dad!” I cried, the word catching in my throat as tears welled up and spilled down my cheeks.

I ran toward him, limbs still heavy but heart light, bursting.

The sun climbed higher—and a brilliant, piercing light filled my vision.

VII. Unity

The white lights slowly dimmed as my eyes adapted to the environment. I sat up and found myself wearing a blue hospital gown.  

Am I a robot? Or am I the real Ivoria? I just got out of a cornfield maze that I had been stuck in like forever. I remembered the bike accident. But I also remembered everything that happened in the last few days, including the light taste of the blue drinks. 

I pinched myself as hard as I could on my cheek. Flinching, I felt the pain shoot through my face. 

“Ow!” I am the real Ivoria.

I turned my head—and froze.

There, lying still on the smaller bed beside mine, was an exact copy of me.

The Robot Ivoria.

She did it – We did it. 

She transferred all of her memory, knowledge, and experience to me through the neural-transfer device. Every part of her memory is living inside me now. 

I looked down. On the bedside table was a folded piece of paper. I picked it up.

It was a letter.

“Dad?” I called out as Dad rushed into the hospital room, staring at me, seemingly confused. 

Before he could ask any questions, I handed him the letter.

Dear Dad,

When you read this, I should have successfully woken up Ivoria from her coma.

Thanks to the incredible amount of computing power you put into my brain, I was able to conduct numerous research in such a short time and eventually found a way to connect to Ivoria’s brain through electromagnetic wave resonance. This is only possible when my brain is loaded with the memory of Ivoria. A robotic brain and human brain with the same memory can connect to each other through EM wave resonance. It is similar to how some identical twins can feel the thoughts of each other but works in a slightly different way. Resonance can happen if either the carrier of the memory are structurally identical, as with twins, or the memory itself are identical, as it is the case between me and Ivoria. The connection between two brains from identical twins happens from time to time but in such a weak way that most people won’t notice it. We need a resonance amplifier to boost the resonance signal by a thousand times in order to establish a reliable connection. We need a device that sweeps six-dimensional frequency with accuracy on the level of nano-hertz and locks onto the frequency when it detects the resonance signal. 

Finally, I did it. 

Ivoria just got trapped in a nightmare and I helped her get out of it. She will be fine when she wakes up. 

By the time my memory is scheduled to be erased, I will have been in this world for 14 days, 2 hours, 35 minutes and 20 seconds. I treasured every second of my existence. Thank you for creating me and loving me despite the fact that I am just a robot.  I really wish I could stay with you forever. But the world is not ready for two Ivoria. I am so glad that I got this opportunity to fulfill my purpose and help Ivoria wake up. 

I wish you and Ivoria have a happy life ever after.

-Ivory

“Ivory?” Dad murmured, folding the letter with trembling hands.

“That’s my robot twin sister’s name. You chose it for her—remember?” I said gently, watching him search the corners of his memory.

I told him about the endless dream, how Ivory had been my guide, how she showed me the way out.

“…and then, I heard lightning crash, and a voice in my head told me to use the cornstalk as a torch and scatter corn seeds along my path. I eventually made it out of the maze and woke up, remembering everything: my own memory, Ivory’s memory, and our shared dream.”

Dad didn’t speak for a long moment. Then his shoulders eased, and his eyes softened with something between relief and sorrow.  “I’m so glad you finally woke up. I was afraid you’d be in a coma forever. I’m so proud of you and Ivory.”

I nodded, though a strange ache settled in my chest. “I’ll miss her. But she’s still here. She always will be. We’re not two anymore.”

Dad reached out, fingers brushing my temple. “No. You’re one mind now. United.”

Outside, the first light of morning sunshine spilled across the window. I closed my eyes and felt it—Ivory’s presence, quiet and warm, like a hand resting gently in mine.