The storm hadn't come yet, but something heavy sat in the air—like the sky had forgotten how to breathe.
Margo barely heard the front door click shut behind her. Her parents' heels struck the marble floors like war drums.
"Margo Wood!" her father's voice cracked through the hallway like lightning.
She turned slowly, eyes wide, lips trembling. "Yes…?"
Her mother was red in the face, hands trembling. "What were you thinking?! Throwing food? Fighting at school? Is this how we raised you?"
Margo flinched. "They started it. I—"
"Go. To. Your. Room."
Her father's voice silenced her. It wasn't a yell—it was colder than that. Like frost gathering behind his teeth.
She ran, the soft soles of her shoes barely touching the stairs, her breath catching like it didn't want to stay inside her anymore. Behind her, the words twisted through the halls—echoing.
"She's ungrateful—"
"She's ruined everything—"
"I can't do this anymore. We need to talk about adoption again."
Her heart collapsed. Adoption.
.Margo pressed her hands over her ears as if it could keep the sound out, but their words had already carved themselves into her bones. She curled up beneath her velvet sheets, her tears wetting the pillow like quiet rain. The ceiling spun. Her heartbeat echoed too loud.
"I'm sorry, Julia…" she whispered. "Please don't hate me…"
Her eyes grew heavy, her breath shallow.
Then—darkness.
She was falling.
Not like dreams where you jolt awake. No. This was slower. Like slipping through silk. An endless white spiral curled around her like smoke. Her hand reached up, desperate—and another hand reached back.
A boy's hand. Cold. Too cold. His fingers grazed hers just before she dropped—
Thud. She was back. On solid ground. Grass kissed her legs, and dew clung to her like tears. She blinked.
Her house stood in front of her.
The Wood mansion—but off. The windows were smeared black. The walls too perfect, like a painting frozen in time. The air was still, like even the wind was holding its breath.
Then she woke again. Heart pounding. Sweat soaking her nightgown.
Dawn hadn't arrived. The world outside was pale and bruised with mist.
Still shaken, she stood up and dressed in her school uniform with trembling hands. Her collar wasn't sitting right. The tie kept loosening.
She called out: "Bry?" Silence. "Mother? Father?"
Only the distant hum of nothing replied.
Margo stepped into the hall. The floorboards creaked under her weight. Every step felt wrong. Like the house had grown older overnight.
The grand chandelier above the staircase shook slightly.
Then—
It fell.
Glass exploded around her, shards catching the morning light like scattered stars. She stumbled back, hands shaking.
"What…?"
She ran to the kitchen, heart in her throat. Her hands found the largest knife in the drawer. The weight grounded her.
Another sound.
A creaking door.
Upstairs.
The bedroom.
Her father's room.
She crept up, legs wooden. Every stair groaned under her weight like it didn't want her going up.
The door stood ajar.
The air was wrong—cold, thick.
Then—movement.
Two eyes glowed from the shadows.
Green. Not human. Burning like moss and moonlight.
Something lunged.
An axe sliced the air, missing her by inches.
She screamed and tumbled down the stairs, hitting the bottom with a bruised cry. Pain shot through her back.
She looked up. It was her father. Or what looked like him.
His face twisted, mouth stretched too wide, hands shaking with rage and something far worse. The axe gleamed. He stepped forward.
"Margo…" His voice was guttural. Echoing like it came from a pit too deep to measure.
She ran. Every door—locked. Every window—sealed. Outside, the sky wasn't sky anymore. It bled green and blue, like bruises blooming across the heavens.
The mansion was no longer a house. It was a cage.
Exotic vines pressed against the windows like they wanted inside. Flowers opened their mouths like teeth. Birds with no eyes watched her.
She ran to the front door, yanking at the knob—
"Margo…"
A whisper from the garden.
Hands grabbed her, pulled her into the bushes. A boy. No older than her. Pale skin. Hollow eyes.
"Shhh…" he whispered, pressing a finger to her lips. "He can't find you here."
"Who—who are you?!" she hissed.
"You know me," he said, his voice like static on a radio. "You've seen me before."
Her heart dropped. The dream. The hand. Him.
"But I… you're not real."
He smiled—sadly. His breath fogged in the cold.
"Maybe not. But you'll see me again. Maybe tonight. Or the next. Or the next after that."
His voice faded.
Then her vision tilted—blackness rose like smoke—And she woke. Back in bed. Breathless. Shivering.
And somewhere, far off, a soft voice echoed in her head.
"You saw me once… you'll see me again."