That night, I didn't fall asleep.
I dropped into it.
Like stepping off a cliff inside my own head. No warning. No slow drift. Just black, and then... light.
It wasn't my room. It wasn't even this century.
I stood barefoot in the center of a massive courtyard, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood and blood. The stone beneath me was warm. Sacred. Freshly stained.
Around me, masked priests circled, chanting. Their faces hidden behind carved wooden visors. Barong. Rangda. Demon. God. All blurred into one. They held staffs carved with teeth, and they were pointing them at her.
She was kneeling. Wrists bound with white cloth turned dark red. Her head was bowed. Long black hair drenched in sweat. She was breathing hard but steady. I couldn't see her face, but I knew it was her.
The watcher. The penunggu. The woman who had followed me into sleep, into mirrors, into breath.
The seer they couldn't silence, so they chose to erase.
A voice boomed across the courtyard.
"You were warned."
Another followed. "Your visions curse the land."
"You were not meant to see."
She raised her head.
Eyes wide open. No fear. Just clarity.
"Then you should have looked away," she said.
And she laughed.
Not in madness. But in defiance.
It chilled me. Not because it was unhinged, but because it was sane. Powerful. Certain.
The chanting grew louder. The wind picked up. Clouds spun overhead in spirals. Statues cracked. Birds fell from the sky like loose feathers.
They began the sealing.
They lifted the mirror.
It wasn't just a tool. It was a prison. A cage dressed as a blessing.
They placed it in front of her, and with incantations carved in Sanskrit and Old Balinese, they began to pull her into it.
Her scream didn't sound like pain.
It sounded like warning.
The mirror glowed. Then cracked. Then turned black.
She was inside.
But her eyes were still visible. Still open. Still watching.
They sealed the temple. Covered it in stone and silence. Told stories of plague. Of blasphemy. Anything but the truth.
The people forgot.
But the mirror didn't.
And now, part of it was under my pillow.
I woke up gasping.
Not sweating. Not cold.
Crying.
Because the scream didn't come from her.
It came from me.
And I remembered every word they said. Every sigil. Every lie carved in sacred places.
She was never evil.
She was just too awake.
And now I couldn't unsee it.
Even in daylight, I saw flickers of that courtyard. The masked priests. The stone cracking. My voice chanting words I had never learned—but now knew by heart.
She hadn't cursed me.
She had chosen me.
Not to carry her rage.
But her memory.
And memory, I was learning, is the most powerful haunting of all.