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Dennis hadn’t spoken in several moments. He watched his wife—his new wife—through the chamber’s pane of reinforced glass, his arms folded tightly across his chest. She looked almost like someone he might’ve dated before they met. Someone he might’ve admired from across a campus library, too intimidated to speak to. She was sharp and striking and young, yet somehow still tethered to the same quiet restlessness he’d always recognized in her.
Bertha could see it working behind his eyes—the reckoning of what was memory, what was invention, and how quickly the line blurred when the machine did its work.
She clicked her pen against the clipboard. “She looks good,” she said again, breezy. “But she’s still only almost there.”
Dennis gave her a wary glance. “What do you mean?”
“I mean she’s twenty-seven,” Bertha said, glancing at the profile on the monitor. “Let’s make it twenty-six. A little closer to grad-school prodigy. Still teaching, still sharp, still grinding for tenure.” She paused, fingers already dancing over the interface. “And while we’re at it…”
She opened a secondary menu. The biometric panel gleamed.
“She deserves a little… advantage.”
Dennis stiffened. “What kind of advantage?”
Bertha didn’t answer with words. She keyed in two changes: one chronological, one physical. Then she hit execute.
The shimmer rolled through the chamber again. Nicolle shifted, almost imperceptibly, and then it began.
The year stripped away smoothly, leaving her features slightly softer, her skin brighter, her energy just a bit more raw. She seemed more reactive now, less composed—less sure of herself in her still-new skin. And then the real change began.
It was subtle at first. A stretch beneath her button-down shirt. A tautness in the seams. And then, it built. Her chest swelled—fuller, rounder, heavier—until the cotton blouse strained visibly across her front. The button line curved slightly outward, tugging faintly where the fabric could barely contain her new figure. Her bust had grown dramatically, unapologetically, into something that dominated her frame. Not cartoonish. Not impossible. Just conspicuously large.
Too large to ignore.
Her blazer had reshaped with her—broader through the chest, tapered at the waist—but it gapped when she moved now, refusing to lie flat. And the shirt beneath? Still buttoned—but barely. The open neckline revealed deep cleavage, rich and shadowed, and the slightest shift promised more. One button popped subtly under pressure, holding on by strain and thread.
Nicolle didn’t notice. She looked down briefly, adjusting her bag strap over one shoulder, and didn’t seem fazed when it slid immediately off again.
To her, this was normal.
She paced within the chamber now, scrolling her phone with one hand while her other arm cradled her binder awkwardly beneath her chest—because that was how she’d always carried things. Because that was the body she’d always had.
Bertha folded her hands under her chin and leaned forward, admiring her handiwork.
“She’s still a professor,” she murmured. “Still fiercely smart. Still fighting for credibility in a department full of older men who call her ‘young lady’ in faculty meetings. She just happens to have a chest that makes most of the office stare when she walks by.”
Dennis swallowed hard. “They notice her?”
Bertha nodded. “Everyone does. She’s too gifted not to. And too obvious not to. The senior committee tells themselves her appearance won’t influence anything, but she sees them looking. Hears the hesitation in their voices. She knows what they think—what they’re trying not to think. And it terrifies her that it might help… or might not help enough.”
In the chamber, Nicolle checked her watch, then tapped out a quick message on her phone. As she turned, her shirt pulled tighter again, revealing a fleeting, dramatic outline through the fabric—no bra, just skin, movement, weight.
“She’s twenty-six,” Bertha said softly. “Still your wife. Still Judy’s mom. All the memories align. Just like this.”
Dennis couldn’t take his eyes off her. The woman in the chamber was his wife, and not. Somehow both things were true.
Bertha didn’t press him.
She just smiled, her voice quiet but unmistakably pleased.
“Six changes left.”
Bertha could see it working behind his eyes—the reckoning of what was memory, what was invention, and how quickly the line blurred when the machine did its work.
She clicked her pen against the clipboard. “She looks good,” she said again, breezy. “But she’s still only almost there.”
Dennis gave her a wary glance. “What do you mean?”
“I mean she’s twenty-seven,” Bertha said, glancing at the profile on the monitor. “Let’s make it twenty-six. A little closer to grad-school prodigy. Still teaching, still sharp, still grinding for tenure.” She paused, fingers already dancing over the interface. “And while we’re at it…”
She opened a secondary menu. The biometric panel gleamed.
“She deserves a little… advantage.”
Dennis stiffened. “What kind of advantage?”
Bertha didn’t answer with words. She keyed in two changes: one chronological, one physical. Then she hit execute.
The shimmer rolled through the chamber again. Nicolle shifted, almost imperceptibly, and then it began.
The year stripped away smoothly, leaving her features slightly softer, her skin brighter, her energy just a bit more raw. She seemed more reactive now, less composed—less sure of herself in her still-new skin. And then the real change began.
It was subtle at first. A stretch beneath her button-down shirt. A tautness in the seams. And then, it built. Her chest swelled—fuller, rounder, heavier—until the cotton blouse strained visibly across her front. The button line curved slightly outward, tugging faintly where the fabric could barely contain her new figure. Her bust had grown dramatically, unapologetically, into something that dominated her frame. Not cartoonish. Not impossible. Just conspicuously large.
Too large to ignore.
Her blazer had reshaped with her—broader through the chest, tapered at the waist—but it gapped when she moved now, refusing to lie flat. And the shirt beneath? Still buttoned—but barely. The open neckline revealed deep cleavage, rich and shadowed, and the slightest shift promised more. One button popped subtly under pressure, holding on by strain and thread.
Nicolle didn’t notice. She looked down briefly, adjusting her bag strap over one shoulder, and didn’t seem fazed when it slid immediately off again.
To her, this was normal.
She paced within the chamber now, scrolling her phone with one hand while her other arm cradled her binder awkwardly beneath her chest—because that was how she’d always carried things. Because that was the body she’d always had.
Bertha folded her hands under her chin and leaned forward, admiring her handiwork.
“She’s still a professor,” she murmured. “Still fiercely smart. Still fighting for credibility in a department full of older men who call her ‘young lady’ in faculty meetings. She just happens to have a chest that makes most of the office stare when she walks by.”
Dennis swallowed hard. “They notice her?”
Bertha nodded. “Everyone does. She’s too gifted not to. And too obvious not to. The senior committee tells themselves her appearance won’t influence anything, but she sees them looking. Hears the hesitation in their voices. She knows what they think—what they’re trying not to think. And it terrifies her that it might help… or might not help enough.”
In the chamber, Nicolle checked her watch, then tapped out a quick message on her phone. As she turned, her shirt pulled tighter again, revealing a fleeting, dramatic outline through the fabric—no bra, just skin, movement, weight.
“She’s twenty-six,” Bertha said softly. “Still your wife. Still Judy’s mom. All the memories align. Just like this.”
Dennis couldn’t take his eyes off her. The woman in the chamber was his wife, and not. Somehow both things were true.
Bertha didn’t press him.
She just smiled, her voice quiet but unmistakably pleased.
“Six changes left.”
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