The next morning came wrapped in light and fog.

  Kael opened his eyes before the sun was fully up. Not tired. Not rested. Just… present.

  Downstairs, the Merrow house murmured with the rhythm of life. Cabinets opening. Microwave humming. Harlin’s voice through the wall, laughing at something.

  Kael sat up.

  His heart was beating too softly.

  He walked to the bathroom, flicked on the light. The mirror stared back. He stared longer. Counted to ten.

  His reflection blinked on seven.

  Breakfast passed in a haze. Kael didn’t remember pouring cereal. Didn’t remember sitting down. But he was halfway through the bowl when Micah looked up from his slate and frowned.

  “You always eat that fast?”

  Kael blinked. “What?”

  “You were just talking about—”

  Micah trailed off. “Never mind.”

  Annabelle entered from the back patio, hoodie over her shoulders. “Kael, did you finish the sketch you were working on last night?”

  Kael turned. “What sketch?”

  Annabelle paused. “The one you showed me. You said it came to you in a dream. It looked like a map.”

  Kael stared at her. “I didn’t dream last night.”

  Micah and Annabelle exchanged a glance.

  He walked for air.

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  The streets felt too symmetrical. A bird chirped in threes, perfectly timed. His feet carried him without permission.

  Thoughts began to answer themselves.

  “I should head back soon.”

  You already did.

  He froze. That wasn’t his thought. But it echoed with the same cadence. Same rhythm.

  He closed his eyes. Inhaled. Opened them.

  He was no longer on the sidewalk. He was sitting on the porch.

  Afternoon brought silence.

  Too much of it.

  Kael stood in the hallway. The Merrow home felt unfamiliar now. As if the house remembered someone else living here longer than him.

  From upstairs: humming.

  Soft. Gentle.

  A melody his mother used to hum while slicing fruit by the window.

  He followed it. Hallway. Landing. The door to the attic cracked open.

  He didn’t remember the Merrows having an attic.

  He opened the door.

  And stepped into a room that did not belong in the house.

  The walls were concrete. Unpainted. Flickering white light above. Dust hung motionless in the air.

  Two chairs faced each other across a metal table. One was empty.

  The other was not.

  Kael.

  Himself. Sitting perfectly still. Head bowed. Palms up on the table like a doll waiting to be played with.

  Kael took a step forward.

  The air rippled.

  His doppelg?nger raised its head. Slowly.

  And its face was a mirror.

  A perfectly smooth, gleaming surface where eyes, nose, and mouth should’ve been.

  Kael stared into it—and saw himself.

  But not as he was now.

  Older. Tired. Spirals burned into his palms. Mouth sewn shut.

  The mirrored Kael tilted its head. And the surface began to speak.

  No lips moved. No sound came out. But the words filled Kael’s skull like water flooding a sealed room:

  “Why do you still resist?”

  “You’re not real, Kael.”

  “You’re the part that couldn’t let go.”

  Kael stumbled back. But the door was gone. The walls began to breathe—slow, heavy, wet.

  The mirror-Kael stood.

  It raised a hand and pressed it to Kael’s chest.

  Kael couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t even look away.

  He felt his memories tearing—not erased, but shuffled. Rearranged. Rewritten with the same handwriting but different meaning.

  Then, the voice returned.

  “You’re the last version.”

  “When you’re gone, we’ll start over.”

  The light flickered.

  And the mirror shattered.

  From within the fragments—something looked out.

  Not Calderon. Not Kael.

  Something else.

  It grinned with teeth shaped like questions Kael hadn’t asked yet.

  He tried to scream.

  And woke up.

  But the scream was still happening.

  From the hallway.

  From behind the mirror.

  It was still going.

  And it was his voice.