The Pact
The room was heavy with silence, the kind that pressed down on Mara's chest until she felt like she couldn't breathe. The moonlight carved pale shapes across the walls, throwing the twin beds into sharp contrast—Elena's neatly made, sheets tucked in, pillow smooth; Mara's tangled with blankets twisted around her legs, her notebook and pen abandoned on the floor.
Mara had drifted into a restless half-sleep when the whispering began.
At first, she thought it was a dream. A faint murmur, broken syllables, the kind of sound that lives somewhere between language and nonsense. She turned over, groggy, but then her eyes snapped open. The sound wasn't coming from inside her head.
"Elena?" she whispered.
Her sister lay in her bed, perfectly still except for her lips. They moved soundlessly at first, then words formed, slurred, fragile, as if they were being pulled from somewhere deep.
"…don't leave me… stay with me… always…"
Mara sat up, her pulse thudding. "Elena?" she hissed louder, but Elena's eyes remained closed, lashes fluttering with the rhythm of sleep.
Mara swung her legs out of bed, crossing the space between them. She crouched beside Elena, watching her face. Identical to hers, yet softer somehow, lit with silver light.
"…promise… never apart…" Elena's voice cracked into silence. Her lips stilled, her breathing evened out again.
Mara shivered. She reached out, hesitated, then shook Elena gently by the shoulder. "Wake up," she whispered. "You're talking in your sleep."
Elena stirred, grey eyes blinking open, confused. "Mara?"
"You were dreaming. Talking." Mara's voice came out sharper than intended. "What was that about?"
Elena frowned faintly, her gaze hazy with sleep. "I don't remember."
But Mara could tell from the way her sister's fingers tightened on the blanket that she did.
The next evening, Mara dragged Elena outside. The summer air was thick with heat, the cicadas shrieking in the trees. They stopped at the old oak tree in the backyard, the one that had stood longer than the house itself, bark scarred with initials from children long gone.
"You said something last night," Mara pressed, arms crossed. "In your sleep. About never leaving. About always."
Elena shifted, hugging herself. "It was just a dream."
"No," Mara snapped, stepping closer. "You meant it. I could hear it in your voice. You want me to promise."
Elena's eyes darted to the ground, then back to her twin. Her face softened, all the sharpness gone. "Maybe I do," she admitted quietly. "Sometimes it feels like you'll slip away. Like we'll lose each other."
Mara blinked, caught off guard. For once, Elena wasn't perfect, wasn't composed—she looked fragile, uncertain, like a reflection cracked at the edges.
Mara felt a lump rising in her throat. She hated feeling weak, hated needing anyone, but this was different. This was Elena.
"Then let's make it real," Mara said, her voice steadier than she felt. She extended her hand. "A pact. No matter what happens, we stay together. Always."
Elena hesitated only a moment before taking Mara's hand. Her grip was firm, warm.
"Always," Elena whispered, sealing the promise.
The cicadas screamed louder, and the oak's branches groaned in the wind, as if the earth itself had heard them.
Neither twin spoke again, but as they walked back inside, Mara couldn't shake the feeling that the pact was more than just words—it was a binding, something they had set in motion that couldn't be undone.
And deep down, though she'd never admit it aloud, that thought thrilled her.