The short walk should have been simple. Five houses down, a turn at the corner, touch the post box, and come back again. Nothing more. But for Mira, it was a dare against her own body, a test of whether she was still capable of crossing her street without someone else watching her do it.
She had rehearsed it in her head since morning, matching the distance to her breath, weighing the ache in her chest against her will. She had set her phone timer for twelve minutes, a safety net, and locked the front door with deliberate slowness. The brass of the railing was cool beneath her hand. The world smelled of damp brick and wet leaves.
Her blurred sight gave her little more than blocks of shadow and stains of light. Shapes were there but indistinct, as though painted on wet paper. So she trusted her other senses: a dripping gutter that marked the first house, the squeak of a crooked gate at the second, the muffled bark of a small dog at the third. Every sound was a landmark. Every step counted aloud under her breath.
One. Two. Three.
Her feet found the pavement. Her hand skimmed the wall for balance. At the fifth house she stopped, pressing her palm against the bricks to steady her breathing. Her chest was heavy, as if a stone sat lodged beneath her ribs. But she thought she saw it ahead — the faint smear of brighter color where the post box should stand. Not a sharp red box, just a brighter blur against the gray. She told herself it was close. She told herself she could make it.
She pushed herself forward.
At the sixth house, her knees faltered. Her chest clenched as though bound by an iron belt. The pavement tilted under her. She pressed both palms to the wall, trying to stay upright, willing her body to obey. But her body betrayed her. Her legs folded, lowering her to the ground with more collapse than control.
Cold soaked through her skirt. Her breath came ragged. An envelope slipped from her pocket and skittered down the path. She reached for it and found nothing but wet air.
"Miss? Are you all right?"
The voice belonged to a man passing by. His cologne smelled of soap. His tone carried concern that grew sharper when she didn't answer quickly.
"I'm fine," Mira whispered. The word cracked apart as it left her.
"You don't look fine. Stay put." He turned his head and shouted, "Call an ambulance!"
From across the street another voice answered, "Already calling!"
Doors opened. A child cried, "Mummy, she's glowing!" before being hushed.
"Don't be silly," an older woman snapped. But another voice muttered nervously, "I saw it too… her hair, just for a second—"
Mira's chest heaved. Her phone buzzed faintly in her pocket with the timer alarm, then fell silent. Don't make a scene, she thought desperately. But the scene had already claimed her.
Sirens grew closer, slicing through the neighborhood air. People shuffled back. A uniformed woman knelt beside her, hands firm on her shoulders.
"Stay with me," the paramedic said. "Can you tell me your name?"
Mira's lips moved. Only half a word escaped. "Mi—"
"She's trying," the paramedic said quickly. She glanced at the wallet another responder had pulled free from Mira's pocket. Plastic clicked. "ID here. Name's Mira Halden."
The first paramedic leaned closer so her voice landed in Mira's fading awareness. "Mira Halden, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand."
Mira pressed the faintest pressure into the paramedic's palm. Then the dark claimed her.
The stretcher lifted, the doors thudded shut, and the siren wound up. Antiseptic and rubber filled the ambulance air.
"Female, mid-teens," the second paramedic reported into the radio. "Collapse in street. ID on scene reads Mira Halden. Pulse irregular. Breathing shallow. Administering O₂."
The mask pressed against Mira's face. The paramedic's voice was steady, close. "Mira Halden, you're safe. We're taking you to the hospital now. Stay with me."
Mira drifted in and out of consciousness. The siren wailed. Snippets of a radio broadcast leaked from the dashboard, sharp between calls.
"…freak lightning storms reported in three separate cities…"
"…hail the size of marbles in midsummer…"
"…scientists say unusual, but not dangerous…"
One paramedic muttered, "World's going mad," before switching channels.
The words tangled in Mira's mind as her heartbeat fluttered. For a moment, she thought she felt light flare under her skin — sharp and alien — but then the dark dragged her deeper.
She woke to antiseptic air and unforgiving light. A cuff squeezed her arm. Tape tugged at her hand where a line had been fixed. Machines beeped steadily beside her.
"You're in the hospital." A man's voice, controlled and calm. "I'm Dr. Harland. You collapsed near your house. The monitor alerted us. Paramedics brought you in quickly."
She turned toward the blur where his figure must be. "How long?"
"Overnight at least. We'll run tests and adjust your medication."
"I went too far," she said softly. "The post box."
"It wasn't your fault." His answer was smooth, practiced. "That's why the system exists — to keep you safe. You won't be alone anymore. A caretaker team has been arranged."
The word pressed into her chest. "Caretakers."
"Yes." His tone brightened faintly, though it carried no warmth. "They'll assist with daily needs. Prevent another collapse."
Mira pressed her lips together. She wanted to ask who they were, why they had been chosen, what they meant for her life. Instead she said, "I want copies of my records."
"That can be arranged," he said quickly. "Requests go through Ms. Troy."
He stood. His chair scraped lightly. "Rest. I'll return this evening."
When he left, the room cooled as if it had been holding his heat.
A nurse arrived with brisk, warm steps. "I'm Patel," she said kindly. She checked the tape at Mira's hand, adjusted the line, poured water, and guided the glass into her palm. "Sip carefully. Any pain?"
"Not pain," Mira murmured. "Like a belt being tightened."
Patel's voice softened. "Then we'll keep an eye. But you mustn't stand alone. Promise?"
"I promise."
"Good girl. That's half the fight."
Her voice lingered like sunlight before she left. Mira listened to the ward: the rattle of trolleys, shoes squeaking, a cough two beds down, the low drone of a mounted television.
By late afternoon, Nora's voice announced itself from the corridor, scolding a sign about visitor hours before pushing past the curtain. Jasmine perfume and paper rustling came with her.
"Oh, love," Nora said, fond and brisk. "They said you collapsed. I brought custard tarts before the nurses ban sugar."
Mira smiled faintly. "Nurse Patel said she'd stage a pudding coup."
"Then I already like her." Nora set the bag down and lowered her voice. "Delivery vans again last night. Same lad. Tall, dark coat, never says a word. Not a courier. More like a lamppost judging you."
Mira's chest tightened. "Does he knock?"
"No. Just stands there. Sometimes your light flickers when he's outside."
The overhead light flickered at that exact moment. Nora startled, dropped the bag, then forced a laugh. "Old wiring." But her hands trembled as she picked it back up.
That evening, the ward television played a longer broadcast. Mira let it wash over her, half-dreaming.
"…violent storms in multiple regions today…"
"…three fatalities linked to sudden floods…"
"…lightning strikes caused power outages in two districts…"
A meteorologist appeared on screen, pointing to swirling maps. "Pressure systems are unstable. We've never seen anomalies quite like this. We're monitoring closely."
The anchor shifted tone. "Astronomers confirm a meteor fragment is approaching Earth's orbit. They stress there is no danger to the public, though observatories in Europe and Asia are on alert."
The feed cut to street interviews. A shopkeeper complained about ruined stock from hail. A farmer said crops were suffering. A woman with an umbrella dripping rainwater said flatly, "Feels like the world's ending."
Two nurses whispered as they passed Mira's bed. "It's not normal, is it?"
"Don't say that," the other muttered.
Mira turned her face into the pillow and closed her eyes.
The curtain stirred. Boots clicked.
"The support team is here," a nurse said softly.
Mira straightened.
The woman entered first. Even blurred, Mira saw the fiery blaze of her hair, the elegant line of her coat. She smelled faintly of warmth and spice, out of place in antiseptic air. Her voice was smooth, pleasant, confident. "Good evening, Mira."
The boy followed. His silence pressed into the room like a second presence. Mira turned her head, sensing him before she truly saw. His dark hair brushed his shoulders, and his gaze — though blurred — felt sharp enough to pin her in place.
The machines hiccupped. Lights flickered. A nurse muttered, "Again?" and left quickly. Down the corridor, another patient whispered, "Did you see her glow?" and was hushed.
Mira's hand clenched the blanket. "Caretakers," she whispered.
The woman smiled faintly. "Yes. We're here to look after you."
But beneath the smoothness was something else.
Harland entered, shoes sharp on the floor. "Mira," he said smoothly, "allow me to introduce your new caretakers."
He gestured. "This is Selina Vale."
The woman inclined her head. "Hello, Mira."
"And this is Kael."
The boy did not bow. He only looked at her, silent, unblinking.
Mira's chest tightened. Their names weighed heavier than names should.
Harland smiled faintly. "They'll make sure you don't collapse again."
The television in the hall droned on: storms, floods, lightning, a meteor fragment drawing near…
Mira barely heard it. She could only feel the unnatural presence of the two standing at her bedside.
For the first time, she wondered if being alone had been safer.