But then — a colder thought pierced through the fog: what if this wasn't nightmare at all? What if it was real?
No — what if they actually did that?
The question hung in the room like a bad smell. I pressed my palms to my temples until stars burst behind my eyes. The ledger lay on the nightstand, innocent and obscene at once, pages fanned like a guilty fan.
My fingers itched to close it, to smother the ink, but my hands felt miles away — other people's hands, maybe Selene's, maybe someone else's.
Then the room tilted.
Not physically — everything stayed where it should be — but sound thinned, color drained, and the lamp's halo stretched into a long, hungry eye. A single page of the ledger shuddered and lifted as if a small wind breathed from between the covers. It flipped once, twice, and settled on an illustration I hadn't drawn. The line work was wrong and right all at once: familiar angles, foreign intent.
