Our TG Caption

Dennis hadn’t answered. His gaze was distant now, tracking some private current of disbelief as Nicolle returned to scrolling on her phone, murmuring about faculty memos. She looked poised, competent—even elegant—but not quite the woman he remembered. At least not entirely.

Bertha tapped her pen against the edge of the console.

“She looks good, doesn’t she?” she said, more observation than question.

Dennis hesitated. “She always looked good.”

Bertha smiled thinly. “But you’re wondering what she’d look like if she still had something to prove.”

Dennis turned his head slowly, his expression guarded. “What?”

“She’s comfortable now,” Bertha said, eyes never leaving the screen. “Tenure. Career. Family. Stability. What if we rewound things a bit? Left her where she is, but earlier in the timeline.” She was already navigating menus, narrowing in on the chronological matrix. “Still your wife, still Judy’s mom. But let’s say she had her early. Let’s say she finished her doctorate a little too fast. And now she’s in her twenties, no tenure yet, hungry for it. Working twice as hard, and—let’s be honest—leaning into what she has.”

“You’re going to make her younger?”

Bertha didn’t look up. “You’d be surprised how often people ask for it.”

Dennis didn’t respond, but he didn’t stop her either.

Bertha keyed in the adjustment. The machine’s interface gave a low, resonant chime—almost like a heartbeat slowing. She lowered Nicolle’s age in steady increments, one by one, watching as the profile recalibrated, year by year, until it settled just shy of twenty-eight. Then she locked in the setting.

Inside the chamber, Nicolle didn’t move. The shimmer came again, more subtle this time—like warm light bending through glass. She stood as she had before, but the change was immediate, and this time, dramatic.

Her features smoothed and sharpened all at once. Youth reasserted itself in the fullness of her cheeks, the tautness of her skin. The slight heaviness in her posture dissolved, replaced by a leaner, more compact energy. Her figure shifted: trimmer waist, firmer curves, a buoyant vitality that belonged to a woman closer to twenty-five than forty. The long blonde hair she’d pinned back so neatly was gone—replaced by a thick, glossy chin-length bob that swung with weight and shine as she moved her head. It framed her face with more volume, more purpose, as if she’d stepped out of a magazine ad for an upscale campus apparel brand.

Her clothes had changed with her. The cardigan was gone. In its place, a smart, close-cut blazer sat snug against her youthful frame. Beneath it, the same white button-down—but the buttons gave way sooner, a touch lower than before, showing the soft upper curves of her breasts, poised right at the line of propriety. Her skirt was shorter now, closer to the knee, paired with sheer tights and polished heels. The satchel remained, newer and less worn, slung over one shoulder like a lifeline.

She exhaled, quietly. Then tucked her phone away and adjusted her sleeves. Not anxious—but not sure of herself, either.

Bertha leaned back in her chair, watching. “She’s still in the department,” she said. “Still lectures three days a week. But now she’s early-career. Pre-tenure. Scrambling to publish. Trying to impress the committee. Hoping her student evaluations don’t tank her file.”

Dennis frowned slightly, his eyes not leaving his wife. “She doesn’t know?”

“To her,” Bertha said, “she’s always been this. Young, gifted, under pressure. Married too early. Mother too soon. Trying to prove she can have it all.”

In the chamber, Nicolle pulled her blazer tighter across her chest, then let it fall open again. She glanced downward, then seemed to dismiss whatever she was thinking. The bounce in her walk, the weight in her hair, the line of her jaw—none of it belonged to the woman who’d walked in earlier.

“She’s beautiful,” Dennis said softly.

“She’s your wife,” Bertha replied. “And always has been. Judy remembers her like this. Her colleagues do too. You're the only one who knows it wasn't always so.”

Nicolle adjusted her shirt, glanced at the mirrored surface of the chamber wall, and seemed to check her reflection—not with vanity, but with calculation. She tilted her head and squared her shoulders. Young. Brilliant. Trying.

Bertha let a silence hang, then gave a half-smile.

“Seven changes left,” she said. “Want to see what she’ll do to get what she wants?”