02 Jul Regression

Part I 

Edward Branner was used to feeling like time had abandoned him. Most mornings, he shuffled down the hallway of his house with the slow shuffle of someone seventy-two going on ninety, legs aching, spine stiff, stomach grumbling for something he wasn’t supposed to eat.

But something about this morning was different.

He had woken up clear-headed, without the usual fog or dizziness. His fingers didn’t tingle with neuropathy when he reached for his glasses. The sugar monitor on his nightstand blinked back a number in the low 90s—normal. Normal. That hadn’t happened in years.

He sat there for a moment, staring at the result as if it might change if he blinked. Then he stood up—too fast, he realized—waiting for the familiar head rush or stumble, but it never came. There was no vertigo, and no grinding pain in the knees. He couldn’t believe it.

Downstairs, his coffee brewed while he inspected his pill organizer. One of the slots—Thursday morning’s—was empty. The RegeniVita capsule. The new one.

He’d started it five days ago.

RegeniVita-3. The name still sounded like something out of a supermarket anti-aging commercial, but the doctors at Brookridge Clinical Research had assured him it was serious work—early-stage biotech, designed to stimulate cellular insulin production and repair damaged pancreatic tissue. He’d almost walked out of the office when they mentioned gene targeting, but Nurse Carla had leaned in and said, “It could change everything, Eddie. Might even let you stop shooting up someday.”

So he signed the waiver, swallowed his hesitation, and now here he was, upright, clear-minded, and hungry, but not in the panicked, low-blood-sugar way. He was ready for breakfast.

He made scrambled eggs with real cheese and didn’t feel guilty. He even made toast, buttered and all.

He only realized he’d forgotten to check his blood sugar again when he was halfway through eating. He didn’t feel the need.

That night, he sat at the kitchen table with his journal. The study guidelines were specific: participants were required to log both physical and psychological responses. He’d expected to write a few gripes about headaches and stomach cramps. Instead, he flipped to a clean page and scribbled:

Day 5 – Thursday
Woke up feeling… good. Like I slept deeply. No stiffness in my joints. Blood sugar in the 90s. Toasted, buttered bread for the first time in months. Could’ve walked a mile.

He paused. Considered scratching that last line out, but let it stand. It wasn’t quite true—but it didn’t feel like a lie.

He looked up at the microwave clock and blinked. It was 9:04 PM. He hadn’t napped today, not once.

By Sunday, the effect was impossible to ignore.

Edward stood in front of the mirror in his upstairs bathroom with his shirt off, eyes narrowed. His back looked… straighter. His skin had lost some of its parchment sheen. The liver spots on his chest were lighter. He touched one just to check. It didn’t flake. It wasn’t dry. He rubbed it again. Smooth.

His hair—what little he had left—seemed thicker around the sides. And it wasn’t completely gray, either. More like an ash brown he hadn’t seen in decades.

He grinned, then laughed, then shook his head at himself. “You old bastard,” he muttered. “You’re not Benjamin Button.”

Still, he took a photo, just to have proof. The next morning, he took another, from the same angle, with the same lighting. In it, he had a slightly fuller face, a slightly tighter jawline.

He didn’t write any of that in the journal, of course. He wasn’t an idiot. He’d read the trial waiver front to back—twice. They owned the data. Every word he wrote, every picture, every blood draw. He wasn’t about to give them more than what was required. But the unspoken truth crept in behind his thoughts: something strange was happening, something more than a blood sugar fix. And for the first time in years, he felt like he had time again, like maybe the hourglass had flipped.

On Monday, his phone buzzed with an incoming call. Timothy.

Edward stared at the name for a few seconds before answering.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dad.” His son’s voice was guarded, as usual. “You been by the clinic again?”

“Last week. Why?”

“Just got off the phone with Carla. She said you’re on some new protocol. Thought I’d check in. How are you doing?”

Edward glanced down at his hands. They looked… younger. The veins didn’t bulge like before, and the thin, papery skin seemed tighter over the knuckles.

“I’m doing fine, Tim.”

“Fine how? Blood sugar fine, or—”

“Fine-fine. Feeling better. Sleeping better. It’s working.”

There was a pause.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Tim said. “Really. I just—look, I know we haven’t talked much lately, but I was thinking, if you’re free next week—”

“I’m free,” Edward said, before he could think better of it.

A moment of silence passed.

“Alright,” Tim said. “I’ll swing by Saturday then.”

* * * * * *

That night, Edward wrote in the journal, but this time, the tone had shifted.

Day 10 – Monday
Weight steady. Blood sugar perfect. Stairs feel easier. Skin looks clearer—might be placebo. Talked to Tim today. Surprised he called.

He hesitated before adding:

Wonder if he’ll notice.

The thought nagged at him. It wasn’t vanity. He wasn’t expecting compliments. But he was curious—morbidly so—what another set of eyes might say. Whether Tim would tilt his head, squint, or ask what filter he’d used.

He told himself not to get excited. Maybe Tim wouldn’t notice anything. Maybe it was placebo.

But deep down, he knew better. He could feel it in his knees when he stood up, in the way his toothbrush no longer made his gums bleed. In the taste of food, somehow more vivid now than it had been in years. The medication was working. Too well.

By Friday, Edward’s belt was two notches tighter.

He’d shaved, just to test a theory, and found himself staring at his reflection afterward with an odd sense of detachment. The man in the mirror wasn’t young, but he wasn’t Edward Branner, either—not the one who needed help putting on his socks last month. The swelling in his knuckles was gone. The deep furrows above his brow had softened. His posture felt… easy. Natural. Like he didn’t have to fight gravity quite so hard anymore.

He found himself humming as he put away the dishes. The house smelled cleaner and looked brighter. He opened the windows and let in air. He even put on music.

When Saturday came, he put on a collared shirt he hadn’t worn since Linda’s funeral. It fit again, maybe even better than before.

Timothy arrived just past noon. He stepped inside, blinked twice, and didn’t hide the confusion on his face.

“Jesus, Dad.”

Edward smiled. “Good to see you, too.”

“I mean… you look like you dropped twenty pounds. And your skin—” Tim gestured vaguely. “You—you look like you’ve had work done.”

Edward chuckled. “Just a new drug. They’re testing some biotech that regulates insulin and repairs cells. Seems like it’s doing a little more than they expected.”

Tim studied him. “They told you this might happen?”

“They said some patients see dramatic improvements. I suppose I’m just lucky.”

“You’re… lucky…” Tim repeated slowly. His tone was cautious now. “And you’re not worried?”

Edward met his eyes. “Should I be?”

There was yet another long pause, then Tim looked away and shrugged. “No. I guess not. Just seems… fast.”

Edward said nothing.

They ate lunch together, talking about work, the weather, and Linda. And when Tim left, Edward lingered by the window a long time after the car was gone.

His son had noticed that the drug was changing him. And deep down, where the silence lived, Edward was starting to wonder if this was what getting better felt like—or something else entirely.

Part II

Edward stopped checking his blood sugar. There didn’t seem to be a point anymore.

Every morning for nearly twenty years, he’d jabbed his fingers and logged the numbers, watching them rise and fall like the tide. But since starting RegeniVita, the results had flatlined in the 90s, then the 80s. Eventually, he stopped pricking altogether. It felt like taking the temperature of a man already on fire—academic at best, irrelevant at worst.

And besides, there were more interesting things to monitor now.

He kept the photos in a private folder on his phone, labeling each by date, then by guess:

Day 12 – Looks 58
Day 14 – 50? Hard to say.

The changes had moved beyond subtle. His neck was firm again. The loose skin along his jaw had tightened, not unnaturally, but as if undone. He’d gone back to a full head of hair without noticing exactly when the bald spots had filled in. Even the sun spots on his arms—brown, crusted and familiar—had simply disappeared.

He didn’t know what to do with it. The people at the grocery store looked at him like he was a stranger. One cashier asked if he’d just moved to town. Another asked for ID when he bought a six-pack, Edward grinning all the while, as if it were a compliment. The second time it happened, he looked at his driver’s license and barely recognized himself. In his license photo, he recognized the all-too-familiar droopy eyelids, the puff of white hair, and the mottled skin. But by all accounts, that man was now dead, and no obituary had been printed.

The next journal entry was more clinical than the rest:

Day 15 – Wednesday
Rapid physiological changes continuing. No noticeable adverse symptoms—energy levels high, appetite steady, sleep quality excellent.

Musculature: Improved. No more lower back pain.
Skin: Color and elasticity improved.
Vision: Reading glasses no longer required.

No psychological symptoms yet.

(Note: weight unchanged, but clothes fit differently. Shirt collars looser. Waistline contracted. Reaching belt holes I haven’t used in decades.)

He didn’t write about the way his voice had changed, how it had lost its crackle and drifted into something smoother and more flexible. He didn’t mention the odd sensation of his hands while shaving, like he was using someone else’s fingers, unfamiliar and fast. He kept those parts to himself.

* * * * * * *

When Timothy came by the following weekend, the conversation turned colder.

“Have you seen a real doctor?” Tim asked.

“This is a real doctor’s work,” Edward said.

“I mean, someone outside the trial. A general practitioner, or someone in family practice. Hell, even an endocrinologist.”

Edward folded his arms, half-defensive. “For what?”

“For this.” Tim gestured toward him. “Dad, you look like you’re in your thirties. That’s not a side effect. That’s a goddamned science fiction novel.”

Edward didn’t respond. Tim leaned forward over the kitchen table.

“I did some digging. This RegeniVita thing? It’s barely past animal trials. You know that, right?”

“They said it was in early human testing.”

“They said early because no one knows what the hell it’s doing. You could be burning through cell cycles. You could drop dead in six months.”

Edward’s eyes narrowed. “Or I could live another forty years.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what I meant.”

Tim pulled back, hands up. “I’m just saying… you look great, okay? Better than I’ve ever seen you. But that’s exactly why I’m worried.”

Edward stood and walked to the sink, not to do anything, just to stand somewhere else. “Do you remember when your mother got sick?”

Tim’s voice was cautious. “Of course.”

“She wouldn’t try anything,” Edward said. “Wouldn’t experiment. She trusted the system, the very same people who told us ‘it’s early, but promising.’ And what did that get her?”

An awkward silence ensued.

“I’m not ready to go out like that,” Edward continued, “so if this is dangerous, I’ll take it. Beats wasting away.”

“You weren’t wasting away, Dad,” Tim said. “And now you’re a glorified lab rat, letting these people have their way with you. And no one has any idea what’s going to happen next.”

That stuck. Not because Edward agreed entirely, but because some part of him recognized the truth in it.

* * * * * *

The next day, he began recording voice memos, not for the trial, but for his own reasons.

The journals were getting harder. His handwriting was fine, but his focus wasn’t. He’d find himself pausing mid-sentence, uncertain what he’d meant to write. Sometimes he’d reread a paragraph and realize he’d already written something nearly identical the day before.

His memory was sharp, but soft. It had become too easy to rewrite and to second-guess, so he spoke instead.

“This is Edward Branner. Day seventeen. I’m five-foot-nine, one hundred sixty-eight pounds. My hair is brown again. I haven’t dyed it. My voice sounds younger. I don’t recognize it anymore.”

“I remember my wedding. I remember my wife’s funeral. I remember Timothy in diapers. I remember myself in diapers. I am not delusional. If you’re hearing this, I am real.”

He saved the file to his desktop, backed it up to a flash drive, and then made a second copy on a private server.

By the next morning, the voice in the new recording sounded distinctly higher.

* * * * * * *

Alison Day returned his call on Day 19. She sounded flustered.

“Mr. Branner, I understand you’ve reported unexpected side effects?” she asked.

“I’m getting younger,” Edward replied.

“Well, let’s not jump to conclusions—”

“Alison,” he said, cutting her off. “I look thirty-five. I have a full head of hair, and I just got carded buying wine for the first time in decades. I am getting younger.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

Edward sighed. “Can you put me in touch with Dr. Halloran?”

“She doesn’t speak directly with subjects.”

“I’m not a subject. I’m a man being reversed like a videotape. Someone needs to explain this to me.”

“Mr. Branner,” she said, her voice careful now, “your results are extraordinary. We are documenting everything. But the protocol is still in review stages, and—”

“Just tell me how to stop it.”

Another pause. Then, “I don’t know if we can.”

Click.

* * * * * * *

On Day 21, Edward tried on his college letterman jacket. It fit. Not just fit—hung well. He looked in the mirror and saw a man he hadn’t been in nearly fifty years. His skin was smooth, his jaw sharp, his hair full and thick. He no longer resembled anyone over thirty. His ID had become a lie.

The part that frightened him most wasn’t the mirror, however. It was the moment he opened the fridge and forgot what he’d come for. Not long—just a second—but it was long enough for panic to slither in.

He wrote in the journal that night, slowly, printing instead of writing in cursive.

Day 21
I can feel things slipping. Not much. Little things. Grocery lists. The names of medications. I had to think hard to remember Linda’s middle name. I still remember myself. I still remember Tim. But I feel like I’m walking backwards in a dream, and I can’t stop.

He considered calling Tim again, but what would he say? “Hey, son. I just wanted to let you know that I’m thirty years old and getting younger by the hour. Could be a toddler by next week.”

He closed the journal and sat very still. He tried not to think about what would happen when the changes reached a point where he couldn’t drive, cook, speak, or remember.

But the thought was there now, and it wasn’t going away.

Part III

By the end of the fourth week, Edward had begun to resemble a man in his late twenties, possibly younger. He wore a hoodie now, mostly to avoid attention. His clothes didn’t fit again—shirts bunched strangely around his chest and shoulders, and his slacks cinched tighter every few days. He went out less, avoided neighbors, and ignored phone calls. The world had gotten too small, too fast.

And the pain had started to return.

Not the slow, grinding aches of age, but something new and sharper, like his body was pulling inward, tightening itself, and being rearranged from the inside. His bones hurt when he bent down. His gums ached. Some mornings, he woke with jaw pain so intense he couldn’t eat until noon. His teeth were shifting, the roots pulling back, his bones shortening. His voice cracked when he spoke, thin and increasingly erratic.

On Day 26, he woke to find the bed damp with sweat and blood. A molar had loosened overnight and come out in his sleep. He rinsed his mouth over the sink and stared at the tooth in his palm. Whole. No decay. No reason for it to fall out. He placed it gently in a paper towel and set it next to the others.

There were four now.

He logged it in the journal, printing carefully with smaller letters than before. Writing had become difficult. His fingers weren’t responding the same way they used to. Sometimes his grip was weak, and sometimes it was too tight. His penmanship varied from page to page. Sometimes it was childlike, other times too neat, as if someone else had written it.

He kept typing notes, too, but even that was becoming a challenge. The keys felt spaced too far apart. His hands jittered with muscle memory that no longer matched his proportions.

* * * * * * *

Tim came by with groceries two days later. He didn’t knock, just let himself in and stopped short in the living room.

Edward was hunched over the dining table, wearing a sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up. His face was leaner and more angular. He barely looked a day over twenty.

“Jesus, Dad.”

Edward looked up slowly. “Hey, Tim.”

Tim set the bags down hard. “You look like my college roommate.”

“I don’t feel like your college roommate.”

“What does that mean?”

Edward tried to smile. “I feel like a bag of rubber bands someone’s pulled too tight.”

Tim walked around the table, studying him. “You’re shorter.”

“An inch, maybe two,” Edward acknowledged.

“This is bad. This is really, really bad,” Tim said. ”I’ve called the clinic, you know. Twice. Emailed that Alison woman. No response. There’s no record of the drug on the FDA trial database. Did you know that?”

“They said it was privately contracted,” Edward replied.

“That’s not how this is supposed to work! There’s supposed to be oversight! Peer review. Ethics boards. Something.”

Edward just looked at him. “What would you like me to do, Tim? Check myself into a hospital and let them poke me until you have the answers you want?”

“I want you to fight.”

“I am fighting.”

Tim opened his mouth, then closed it again.

They sat together in silence, the kind of silence that only families carry, heavy with things too long left unsaid.

Eventually, Edward reached for his journal and slid it across the table. “If something happens—if I stop making sense, or worse—I want you to keep this. I want someone to remember me as I was.”

Tim didn’t touch it. “Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“You’re not dead yet.”

“No,” Edward said. “But I’m running out of adulthood.”

That night, he recorded a new voice memo. He spoke slowly and carefully:

“Day twenty-eight. I’ve lost another tooth. My handwriting is… slipping. I forget words sometimes. I had to Google the name of a neighbor I’ve known for ten years. I’m scared.

I think the worst part is not knowing how far it’ll go. I thought thirty would be the limit. Then twenty-five. Now I’m twenty-two at best, and my knees ache like I’m fifteen going through a growth spurt—but in reverse.

I think I’m going to lose my adult brain soon. I can feel it peeling away, like layers of wallpaper. I don’t want to forget Linda. Or Tim. Or me. Please, if anyone finds this—please, don’t let them bury this. I was real.”

He saved the file, backed it up, and stared at the screen long after the cursor stopped blinking.

* * * * * * *

The emails from RegeniVita stopped entirely around Day 30.

At first, they’d come once or twice a week—vague check-ins with upbeat phrases like “outlier data valuable” and “pioneering outcomes.” Then they’d slowed. Now, there was nothing.

Alison’s number rang repeatedly and went to voicemail. The main number for Brookridge Clinical Research had been redirected to a new firm, some placeholder name with no traceable staff list. Tim had tried driving to the office building itself, only to find it cleared out, its lease expired, and its sign removed.

Meanwhile, Edward was regressing faster than the paperwork could keep up. His cognition had become erratic. He still remembered everything, but his emotions felt unfamiliar and unfiltered. He cried more easily and got flustered trying to open jars or answer emails. Some days, he couldn’t manage a grocery run. Other days, he jogged a mile just to feel in control.

The only thing consistent was the rate of change. Every two days, he lost another year, sometimes more.

He estimated he was nineteen now.

* * * * * * *

Tim started staying over full-time after Edward fell in the shower.

It wasn’t a bad fall—he didn’t hit his head—but it was enough. He couldn’t keep living alone or pretend this was still manageable.

Tim took the downstairs guest room. They ate breakfast together in silence most mornings. Edward had trouble meeting his son’s eyes.

“You’re going to have to register a new Social Security number soon,” Tim joked one morning. “People are going to think I kidnapped some middle schooler.”

Edward tried to laugh. It came out strangled.

Later that day, he tried to update his medical file online and couldn’t remember the password he’d used for years. He tried four variations before giving up and closing the laptop. He forgot what he’d been trying to do and just sat there, hands in his lap, blinking slowly, waiting for the thought to come back.

It never did.

* * * * * * *

By Day 45, Edward couldn’t shave without cutting himself.

His hands had grown too small, too unsteady. His arms felt like sticks, his face too soft and tight. His chin had changed, becoming rounded and childish. His voice broke constantly, rising into a near falsetto without warning. It made him self-conscious. He avoided speaking at all unless Tim encouraged him.

He guessed he was about twelve or thirteen now, the same age Timothy had been the year Linda first got sick. That realization clung to him like static.

The physical pain had lessened—no more sudden jolts of shrinking bone, no more molars popping loose. But in its place came something worse: a softness of thought. A fog. It wasn’t like forgetting a word or misplacing keys. It was like someone had unspooled the wiring behind his eyes, just a little, just enough.

He could still see the big picture. He still remembered his wife’s face, his son’s first car, and the smell of his old garage in winter.

Within a week, however, he was forgetting how to remember.

He would pick up a spoon and pause, staring at it for several seconds before knowing what to do with it. He’d walk into a room and not understand why it felt off until he realized the lights were on, but it was night. Or that he’d left the faucet running. Or that he was cold, but didn’t know where his sweater had gone, or what a sweater even was.

The house began to feel too big. The ceilings too high. The staircase too steep. The front door, too far.

So he stayed in the den and watched cartoons.

Part IV

On Day 54, Tim tried one last time to reach Dr. Halloran. He found her name in a medical journal—an old article on gene-targeted metabolic therapies. She had once been respected, even prolific. But her trail ended five years ago. No recent publications. No university listing. Just a single shell company in Maryland that had since dissolved.

He contacted three lawyers. One said the case was “scientifically implausible.” Another requested Edward’s consent—“in writing, ideally,”—and dropped out after hearing a voicemail of Edward’s current voice. The third gave him a referral for a biomedical ethics committee that didn’t return calls.

It was too late for paperwork, lawsuits, or anything but waiting.

* * * * * * *

By Day 57, Edward had physically regressed to a small child—six, maybe seven. His balance was unsteady, his limbs short and round. His speech came in bursts: half-formed phrases, childish guesses, old memories jammed into small words.

“Mom made blue cake one time,” he said to Tim over lunch. “Wif candles. I ate it all. You was there.”

Tim nodded. “I remember.”

“You was bigger then.”

“I still am.”

Edward giggled. “Nooo. I’m big. Look.” He held up his arms and flexed.

It broke Tim’s heart every time.

There were still flashes of the old man, but they were growing fewer, fading like sun-worn photos. Sometimes Edward would stop mid-sentence, go very still, and whisper something fragile, like:

“I don’t wanna go smaller.”

Or:

“I don’t wanna forget you.”

And Tim would kneel in front of him and say, “I won’t let you.”

But of course, he couldn’t stop it.

All he could do was bear witness.

* * * * * * *

By Day 59, Edward was struggling to write. His hand was too small for the pen to feel right, and his grip was all wrong. Tim bought him a child-sized mechanical pencil and a sketchpad.

That night, Edward drew a picture of the two of them—stick figures, smiling, one tall, one short. He labeled them Me and Tim. The “e” in “Me” was backward.

He stared at the paper for a long time. He didn’t remember drawing it, but it made him cry anyway.

Tim tried contacting journalists, but no one believed him.

He sent photos, videos, and scans of his journal. Most replies were auto-generated or dismissive. One editor responded: Looks like a deepfake aging filter. Come back with medical records.

Medical records didn’t match anymore. Edward’s old files were being flagged as identity fraud. His insurance had been revoked. The state sent a letter questioning his driver’s license renewal, asking for proof of identity “in light of substantial discrepancies.”

Tim tore it in half and flushed it.

On Day 61, Edward stopped speaking for most of the day, due to confusion. His sentences were shorter now, simpler. He still recognized Tim. Still hugged him. Still smiled when they watched TV together. But he didn’t understand the plot and didn’t know how the remote worked, and the commercials scared him—too loud, too fast, too strange.

That night, after Tim helped him change into pajamas, Edward touched his son’s face and said, “I love you, Daddy.”

Tim froze.

Edward blinked, as if sensing something was off, but didn’t correct himself. He looked away, ashamed.

Tim helped him into bed, tucked the covers up tight, and whispered, “It’s okay. I love you, too.”

In the dark, Edward whispered back, “Don’t go.”

Tim didn’t. He sat on the edge of the bed for hours after his father fell asleep, watching the slow, even rise and fall of his chest, knowing that by morning, he would be smaller again.

Younger.

And further away.

* * * * * * *

Tim had bought a set of colored markers, thinking it might help with the writing issues. Edward liked the smell of them. He would pop off the caps and sniff them one at a time, grinning like he was getting away with something.

He tried writing again, but it was no good. The letters came out backwards, sometimes upside down. The sentences ran off the page. He wrote the number three in place of the letter “E,” and vice versa.

Still, he tried.

mi name is edd. i waz a bigg man. i am small now.

i remem bur tim. tim is my son. i wuz a dad. i think i waz. i miss mom. she cryd wen she got sik. tim waz sad.

i lik blue. and toast. and warm blankets.

When Tim found the paper later, he sat at the kitchen table with it in both hands, crying quietly, his shoulders shaking.

Edward didn’t see. He was in the living room, curled up under a throw blanket with a cartoon on, laughing softly at a dog chasing its tail.

* * * * * * *

On Day 62, Edward could no longer dress himself.

He didn’t understand buttons. Socks confused him. His shoes had become Velcro. His pants were toddler-sized.

And he had stopped asking questions.

He napped twice a day now. He cried when startled. He sometimes wet himself. Tim cleaned him up without a word. He never scolded or turned away.

At night, Tim read to him—children’s books with animals and rhyme schemes. Edward would crawl into his lap, head against his shoulder, and whisper along when he remembered a line.

One night, just before falling asleep, Edward looked up at him and said, “You’re the best dad.”

Tim didn’t correct him.

He just embraced him, gave him a kiss, and held him tight until his breathing slowed and he dozed off.

And then, and only then, Tim would cry.

* * * * * * *

On Day 64, Edward lost language.

It wasn’t abrupt. There was no definitive moment—just the slow curling away of syntax, sentence structure, and vocabulary. His words became slurs. Then sounds. Then tones of emotion—grunts, squeaks, giggles, and whines.

Tim tried to show him pictures—photos of Linda, of their old house, of a young Tim with a baseball glove. Edward stared at them with interest but no recognition.

The last word he said was “car.” He pointed out the window at nothing in particular and said it proudly.

Then there was silence.

That night, Tim found him in the kitchen, sitting on the floor with a cereal box turned upside down. Bits of dry cereal were scattered everywhere. Edward was trying to chew, but his mouth couldn’t close right.

He looked up and smiled when Tim entered.

“Hey, buddy,” Tim said, kneeling beside him.

Edward held up a fistful of cereal as if it were treasure.

“Are you hungry?” Tim asked.

Edward nodded, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.

Tim carried him back to the den, wiped him down, and made him a bowl of warm mashed potatoes. Edward clapped when the spoon came near, like a baby.

Afterward, Tim held him on the couch and rocked him slowly, back and forth, while the child that had once been his father hummed tunelessly and blinked up at the ceiling.

* * * * * * *

The final entry in the journal wasn’t written by Edward. It was scrawled by Tim in block letters, on a half-torn page:

Day 65 – I don’t think he knows me anymore.
He’s maybe two now. He can’t talk. He doesn’t respond to his name.
He still laughs, and he smiles when I sing to him. He likes the color blue.
He’s happy, I think.
I’m not. I want my dad back.
I want him to see who I’ve become.
I want him to tell me he’s proud of me.
I want him to remember I forgave him.

Tim folded the paper and slid it between the pages of Edward’s earlier writing, as if the two belonged together.

Then he turned out the light and sat beside the crib, listening to Edward breathe—small, shallow sounds in a small, shrinking body.

And he waited, because he knew what came next.

Part V

Edward was now, by every visible measure, a toddler. He no longer stood without assistance. His coordination had vanished. His soft, untrained limbs moved without purpose or intent, learning the world for the first time.

But his eyes—they still held something. Still held someone.

Tim saw it most clearly in the mornings, just after Edward woke. There was a look that passed over his face for only a moment—a flash of confusion, or recognition, or maybe both. Then it vanished. A blink, a gurgle, and the child was back.

He didn’t speak. He barely babbled. Most days, he was unable to feed himself. But he watched, and he listened. Tim would hum songs as he cleaned the kitchen, and from the floor, Edward would sway gently side to side, nodding along.

Once, during a bath, Tim sang the lullaby Linda used to hum after long hospital nights. Edward stared at him the entire time, wide-eyed.

When the song ended, Edward reached up, touched Tim’s nose, and smiled.

Tim held him for a long time after that. Not because Edward needed it—though he did—but because Tim was afraid of what the next day would take.

His father’s body had changed almost beyond recognition. Edward’s once-strong frame had melted into baby fat and curled fingers. His skin had become impossibly soft, prone to redness and scratches. The remainder of his teeth had all fallen out—some in his sleep, some while eating. His gums bled for hours after the last incisor was gone.

His scalp now bore the fine hair of infancy, sparse and golden-brown. His ears had shrunk into delicate curls. His belly protruded slightly, and his legs had begun to bow as his bones adjusted to crawling rather than walking.

He no longer wore a toddler’s clothing. In anticipation, Tim had ordered infant onesies online, and every day brought the dread of ever smaller sizes.

The baby monitor Tim had relied upon for the past week became unnecessary—Tim now barely left his side.

Even short naps left him panicked. More than once, he jolted awake in the middle of the night, breath caught, heart racing, and ran to the crib to ensure that Edward was still breathing.

He always was. But each time, it was a little slower, a little fainter.

* * * * * * *

Tim took a final photo on Day 67.

Edward was curled in a soft blue blanket on the couch, quietly clutching a plush rabbit to his chest, eyes glassy but alert. His expression was blank, like the world had grown too large to understand, so he had stopped trying.

Tim hesitated before taking it. Not out of guilt, but out of reverence. There was something sacred in what remained, something he didn’t want to reduce to pixels. But he also knew there was no one else left who would remember Edward Branner. And soon, even he might begin to forget the details.

So he took the photo. Then set the phone down and sat beside the child.

“Hi, Dad,” he whispered.

Edward turned his head.

“I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. You didn’t disappear. You’re still you. I promise.”

Edward blinked. One small fist opened and closed around the rabbit’s ear.

Tim rested a hand on his back, feeling his father’s tiny ribs shift with each breath.

“I don’t know if you can understand me. But I wanted to say… I forgive you. For everything. I know you were scared. I know you did your best. And I love you for it.”

He got no response.

But Edward leaned slightly into him, just for a second.

And that was enough.

* * * * * * *

By Day 68, feeding had become a struggle. Edward no longer suckled instinctively. Liquids had to be spoon-fed in tiny drops. His tongue didn’t always respond. His throat muscles occasionally spasmed.

The pediatrician—who thought Tim had adopted a severely developmentally delayed child—recommended hospitalization.

Tim nodded, took the paperwork, and never went back.

He couldn’t risk exposing Edward to another system, another cage. Another set of strangers who would poke and prod and write reports about the “unexplained metabolic phenomena.” So he fed Edward mashed bananas, tepid formula, and watered-down soup. Anything that would slide past the tongue.

He kept a chart taped to the fridge:

• Intake
• Output
• Sleep hours
• Responsive gestures

The last column had gone mostly blank over the past two days.

Tim marked a dash and closed the notebook.

* * * * * * *

On Day 69, Edward no longer responded to his name.

Tim tried saying it in different tones, volumes, and cadences. There was no response, not even a flinch.

He tried music. He tried his mother’s lullaby again. He held Edward close and spoke into his ear.

“I know you’re in there.”

Edward stared at the ceiling.

There was no recognition or fear, just vacant stillness.

* * * * * * *

That night, Tim recorded a video. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was to prove something, or to preserve the impossible. Maybe it was just to hear himself say the words.

He sat on the couch with Edward in his lap, now barely the size of a newborn infant.

“My name is Timothy Branner,” he said to the camera. Then he gestured to the baby. “This is my father, Edward.”

He swallowed hard.

“He was part of a drug trial for something called RegeniVita. It cured his diabetes. And then it started reversing his age.”

He looked down at the bundle in his arms.

“This… this is what’s left of him.”

Edward blinked, slowly. His pupils dilated unevenly.

“He can’t talk,” Tim continued. “Can’t eat. Doesn’t seem to see me anymore—but he’s alive. His heart still beats. His body’s still shrinking.”

He paused.

“I don’t know how much further it’ll go. I don’t know if he’ll survive it, or what will happen next. But if anyone ever sees this… if any of you are listening…”

Tim’s voice cracked.

“Please remember him.”

He stopped the recording and saved the file. Then he copied it to a USB stick and locked it in the drawer beside the journals.

* * * * * * *

On Day 70, Edward didn’t wake up at all.

He lay in his crib, smaller now than he had been yesterday. Head misshapen slightly, neck underdeveloped, limbs curled against his chest. His skin had taken on the translucent softness of a preemie. Veins visible. Bones delicate.

Tim checked his breathing every half hour. It was still there, still shallow—and still slipping.

That night, Edward opened his eyes once—just once—and looked at Tim. There was no recognition, no spark, but there was movement. A tiny hand reaching outward, drifting through the air, fingers opening and closing.

Tim leaned in, taking it gently in both of his.

“You did good, Dad,” he whispered. “You made it. We made it. You’re safe.”

Edward blinked.

“I love you, Dad,” Tim said, holding back tears. “I love you so much.”

Edward’s eyelids fluttered once. Then he slept again–

And he did not wake.

Part VI

By the following morning, Edward no longer resembled a child. His limbs had retracted. His fingers had shortened and lost definition. The soft curve of his skull had tightened inward, as if molded by unseen pressure. His eyes remained closed, lashes fine as dust. His skin was colorless and thin, the pink undertones replaced by a waxy blue. He fit in the palm of one of Tim’s hands.

He no longer breathed with his chest. It was all diaphragm now, fluttering just enough to move the air. The sound of it—wet, shallow, and distant—was barely detectable without holding him close and listening for several minutes.

Tim did that often. He sat beside the crib, or on the couch, or at the edge of the bed, pressing Edward gently to his chest like he might transmit memory through the contact and warmth. There was no sign of response. No flinch, no grasp, no sound. But still, he stayed.

He hadn’t left the house in four days. He turned his phone off after the third voicemail from the pediatrician. He didn’t check the news, read emails, or call Alison again. He had no illusions left that anyone was coming to help. No doctors. No regulators. No miracle reversal.

No one.

It was just the two of them now. The last of Edward’s life playing out in slow, agonizing reverse.

And Timothy would not let him go through it alone.

* * * * * * *

By Day 72, Edward’s size had shrunk to that of a non-viable fetus. Then smaller still. Tim couldn’t imagine how Edward continued to survive the torturous devolution.

Tim wrapped him in a hand towel, then in two layers of gauze when even the towel seemed too coarse against the translucent skin. He kept the room warm, turned off the lights, and kept soft instrumental music playing in the background, more for his own sake than Edward’s.

He tried feeding him formula by syringe. It dribbled out of the corners of the impossibly small mouth. There was no suction reflex left. No swallowing.

Tim gave up. Instead, he stroked Edward’s back and whispered the same words over and over again:

“You’re safe. You’re loved. I’ve got you.”

He said it in the morning.

He said it at midnight.

He said it when the weight in his arms felt too light to be real.

* * * * * * *

He stopped recording after that day.

There was no point.

The concept of “days” had lost meaning. Edward’s development—or unraveling—no longer followed any biological logic. He had passed from baby to preemie to something else entirely, something pre-human.

A few times, Tim sat with a medical book in his lap, flipping through fetal development charts, comparing diagrams to the shifting shape in the gauze. At one point, he stared at a label on the page—Week 10: tail begins to recede—and had to close the book, shaking.

There was no week for what Edward had become.

* * * * * * *

At one point—perhaps Day 74—Edward opened his minute, partially developed eyes. And Tim gasped.

They were not the eyes of an infant, nor the eyes of a fetus. For an instant—one fleeting moment—they were aged, terrified, knowing, and entirely human. And, for a fraction of a second, they locked with Tim’s, and he saw something behind them. Something whole, something trapped.

Edward tried to move—a spasm, maybe, or perhaps instinctively. A final surge of awareness, trying to escape the dying vessel that contained it.

But nothing came. Not a sound, nor a gesture. Just a single tear, sliding from the corner of his eye.

And then the lids closed, gently.

They did not open again.

* * * * * * *

The following day, what remained of Edward weighed just a few ounces.

Tim placed him inside a foam-lined box no larger than a shoe box, not as a coffin, but as insulation. He feared the pressure of gravity itself would be too much.

Edward didn’t breathe anymore, not by any normal metric. There was no visible motion, but there was something—a quiet vibration. Tim thought he could feel it when the room was quiet. It was a low, almost indiscernible hum, like electricity passing through a dying battery, but it was there.

That night, Tim sat at the kitchen table with a glass of water in his hand, staring at the monitor he had set up beside the box. A thermal reading, faint and flickering.

It was still warm—but cooling by the minute.

He picked up the journal, perusing Edward’s early entries. Neat, compact cursive. Concise reports, observations, and thoughts.

Then he read his father’s later additions. The desperate block letters. The downward slope into simpler words, then drawings, scribbles, and, finally, silence.

He read his own recent additions. And when he was finished, he flipped to the back page and wrote one final note:

Final Entry
There’s no body left. He’s smaller than science knows how to measure.
I think he’s still in there. I don’t know if he knows he’s in there, but I feel him.
I don’t know how much longer this will go on. I don’t know if there’s a bottom.
Maybe he’ll just keep going. Past cells and atoms. Past matter.
I don’t know, but I’ll stay with him as long as I can.

He closed the journal, sat in silence, and waited.

* * * * * * *

The next morning, Edward was gone.

There was no heat signature, movement, or weight. The gauze he had been wrapped in was undisturbed, and when Tim unfolded it, nothing lay inside. There was no residue or blood, not so much as a speck of dust.

He reached inside, panicked, fingers shaking, and checked again. Again, there was nothing.

He whispered once. “D-Dad?”

There was no reply, not even a flutter in the air.

He pressed a hand to his own chest. His own heart was still beating. He was still breathing, still here.

But his father was gone.

* * * * * * *

The following week, Tim boxed up the journals and recordings, labeling them “For release upon death.” He stored them in a safe, sealed inside waterproof plastic with a note to any future finder:

This is the only proof I have that my father existed.
That he lived. That he changed. That he was taken.

I don’t expect you to believe it.
But it happened.

His name was Edward Branner.
He was here.
He mattered.

I loved him.
And I always will.

He uploaded the video to a private cloud server, then made three backup copies, turned off the laptop, and packed it away.

He didn’t delete the last photo. He kept it on his phone. The one of Edward in the blue blanket, eyes wide and unaware, the rabbit tucked under one arm.

He looked at it once a day for a while.

Eventually, he stopped needing to.

Eventually, he stopped crying.

Eventually, he went back to living.

But he never stopped remembering.

And he never stopped watching the sky when the wind blew strangely, or listening when the radio caught static for no reason, or he dreamed about a voice he hadn’t heard in years, whispering in a language no longer shaped by lips or lungs.

He didn’t believe in God, but he believed in his father.

And he believed the terrible truth that some mistakes don’t kill you.

They unmake you.