The knife wasn't part of the plan.
Or maybe it was.
Lena couldn't tell anymore which thoughts were hers and which ones had been whispered to her in dreams. But there it was — glinting on her countertop, the same one she'd used to cut fruit this morning.
She picked it up.
Light. Cold.
Perfect.
She stood in front of the mirror, running her burned fingers along the serrated edge. Her reflection stared back—eyes rimmed in violet shadows, skin pale, lips slightly parted.
She looked… curious.
Like a child seeing something beautiful for the first time.
Then she smiled.
Miranda's house was darker than before. The porch light was out. No cars in the drive. The windows were drawn shut with blackout curtains.
But Lena knew she was inside.
She could feel her.
She stood at the door for a long time.
No knocking this time.
Just the sound of her breath.
In. Out. In. Out.
She twisted the doorknob. Locked.
She smiled again. Of course.
She stepped back. Looked around.
Then lifted a rock from the edge of the walkway, crouched, and retrieved the key from beneath it.
"Miranda, Miranda…."
So careful. So predictable.
[Click]
The door opened with a soft click.
Inside smelled like mildew and forgotten years.
The silence wasn't empty.
It was waiting.
She stepped lightly. Her boots made no sound on the wood. Her heart beat like a drum in her ribs, but her mind was calm.
Clear.
This wasn't a breakdown.
It was evolution.
She passed the living room, where photographs sat turned inward. As if Miranda didn't want even her own past to look at her.
Lena's hand curled tighter around the knife in her coat pocket.
She found Miranda in the kitchen, seated at the table with a revolver in front of her and a half-drained bottle of gin beside it.
Their eyes met.
Miranda didn't scream.
"I knew you'd come," she whispered.
Lena stepped forward. "You told me I wasn't supposed to survive."
"I tried to warn them. But no one listens when you say a little girl is dangerous."
Lena's lip twitched. "They thought I was broken."
"You were." Miranda's voice trembled.
"You still are."
Lena's hand moved slowly, resting on the back of a chair.
"You said it wasn't personal."
"It wasn't," Miranda said.
"But now it is."
She reached for the gun.
Too slow.
Lena lunged forward, knocking the revolver from the table and slamming Miranda's head against the hardwood.
It stunned her.
That was enough.
The knife came out of her pocket like a secret finally told.
Miranda gasped. "Please—"
Lena's eyes flickered.
"You don't get to beg. You watched me burn."
One thrust.
Then another.
The blade sank deep.
Miranda tried to scream, but Lena's hand was already over her mouth.
The third thrust was slow.
Surgical.
A sort of ritual.
When it was done, Miranda's body slumped to the floor.
Lena stood over it, panting — not from fear, not from panic. From euphoria.
It was like remembering a song she loved from childhood.
She cleaned up quickly.
Efficiently.
She was careful not to leave prints. She wore gloves. She wrapped the knife in a towel and stuffed it in a sealed bag.
She dragged Miranda's body down into the basement — where the floor was still dirt and the walls didn't judge.
There, she found a shovel.
The work was slow, but not hard.
Lena had done worse.
When the hole was deep enough, she rolled Miranda in.
"I forgive you," she whispered, covering the body with cold earth.
"You weren't evil. Just in the way."
Back upstairs, she sat at the kitchen table.
The silence felt different now.
Satisfied.
Even the air was still.
Then… a creak upstairs.
Her breath caught.
She turned toward the hallway leading to the second floor.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
She rose, cautiously stepping toward the stairs.
Another creak.
Like footsteps.
Someone else?
No — not someone.
Something.
The shadows near the top of the stairs writhed. Like smoke. Like memory.
A whisper:
"You're becoming."
She backed away, heart pounding.
Was it in her head?
"No!"
No, this felt real.
And somehow… right.
Back at home, Lena showered in silence.
The water was pink for too long.
But she didn't feel dirty.
She felt cleaner than she had in years.
She stared at herself in the mirror again.
Only now, her reflection looked calm.
And for the first time, completely in sync.
"You did what you had to do," it said.
Lena didn't argue.
She just nodded.
In the morning, there were no news reports.
No sirens.
No one had found Miranda.
And no one would.
She'd made sure of that.
Another loose end tied in a neat, blood-stained knot.
She sat at her table and opened her journal.
A new entry was already written in her handwriting:
One down.
Now fix the lie.