The soil pulsed beneath her palms.
It was not dirt—not truly. It was too warm. Too soft. It rose and fell as if breathing, as if the earth itself had lungs stitched from roots and rot. Mira knelt there, still and listening, waiting for her heart to slow. It didn't.
The darkness was thick. Not absence-of-light dark, but living dark. It shifted when she looked at it. It whispered things she didn't understand, but which still made her blood ice.
Somewhere, water dripped. Somewhere else, a voice hummed. A lullaby. Off-key.
She stood, brushing the soil from her knees. It clung to her like ash.
Above her, the house had disappeared. There was no ceiling—just an endless black sky pressing down. No stars. Just breath. Every inhale was hers. Every exhale was not.
She turned and saw the walls. Not stone, not wood—flesh. Woven bark and sinew, moving faintly. Breathing with her. Waiting.
A corridor opened to her right. A narrow path with flickering oil lamps that had no flame. She walked. She didn't want to. But her feet did.
Paintings lined the walls again. Familiar figures now—too familiar. Her old neighbors. Her mother. Her own reflection, younger. Unsmiling. Hollow-eyed. As if the house had been watching her for years.
Had it?
She didn't remember when her memories had become unreliable. But she could feel it now. The doubt curling like smoke in the corners of her mind. What if she'd been here before? What if she had never left?
At the end of the corridor stood a door with no handle. Just a keyhole.
Her fingers moved to her neck.
The chain was gone.
The key had been there since she was five. Hung there ever since her mother had told her, "If you ever get lost, this will bring you home."
It was gone.
The door creaked. Unlocked. It opened on its own.
Inside was a room that should not have existed.
A dining table set for a feast, food steaming, untouched. Candles burned low. A chair pulled out slightly, as if someone had just stood.
Across the table sat a girl.
Mira blinked.
The girl blinked back.
Same hair. Same face. Same scar beneath the left eye. But her eyes were wrong—gray and hollow, and smiling.
The girl raised a hand in greeting.
Mira stumbled backward.
Behind her, the door had vanished.
The other-Mira stood slowly.
"I've been waiting," she said.
Her voice was Mira's, but not. Echoing. Reverberating through the room like it belonged to the house.
"I'm what you left behind."
Mira couldn't breathe. The room was too tight. The air too thick.
The other-Mira stepped forward.
And whispered:
"Let me back in."