Nariman's eyes never left the edges of the room. There, in the corners, the shadows still lingered—motionless, unmoving—until suddenly they all turned toward her. She felt the blood drain from her limbs, her heart pounding like a trapped bird. She clung tighter to her mother's arms, realizing that this terror would not end with waking.
Her father lifted his gaze to her mother, his eyes filled with confusion and fear.
— "What's happening to her? Is she sick?"
Her mother tried to hide the tremor in her voice as she answered:
— "Maybe… maybe she was just dreaming."
But Nariman heard their words clearly, and she cried out, trembling:
— "No! I'm not dreaming… they're here… they're watching me!"
Her mother's heart shuddered as she held her tighter against her chest, whispering to soothe her:
— "Sweetheart, there's nothing there… the room is empty, don't be afraid."
Her father knelt in front of her, grasping her shoulders, forcing her to look into his eyes:
— "Look at me. There's nothing there. You're just imagining things. Maybe exhaustion… maybe just your mind playing tricks."
But Nariman couldn't focus on his face. Each time her eyes met his, they were pulled irresistibly back to the dark corners, where the shadows gathered more thickly, watching her in silence. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she whispered:
— "You don't understand… you can't see what I see."
Behind her parents, her siblings exchanged anxious glances, unable to comprehend what was happening. All they saw was their sister screaming and sobbing, while the room held nothing but darkness.
The children clustered at the library door, their small faces etched with fear. One of them tugged at their mother's arm, whispering:
— "Mama… what's happening to our sister?"
Another spoke in a trembling voice:
— "Did… did Nariman go mad?"
The mother shuddered, clutching her daughter even tighter as she replied quickly:
— "No, don't say that! Your sister is fine… she's just a little frightened."
Yet the children's eyes remained fixed on their sister, trembling in the corner, gasping for breath as though trapped in a world only she could see.
Their father stood rooted to the spot, watching with wide eyes his daughter's body curled in terror. For a fleeting moment, he thought it was a nightmare. But her screams, her trembling, her terrified gaze—everything confirmed it was all too real. Slowly, he turned to the other children gathered at the doorway, their pale faces darting between their sister and their parents, as if begging for an explanation.
He drew in a deep breath, then exhaled sharply, as though a thought had begun to take shape within him. Fixing his wife with a firm, worried gaze, he spoke in a low but weighted voice:
— "How old is Nariman now?"
For a moment the mother looked bewildered, not understanding the meaning of the question. Then, clutching her daughter tightly, she answered with a trembling voice:
— "She turned thirteen… just a few days ago."
The words had barely left her lips when a heavy silence settled over the room. The couple exchanged a long look—one that needed no explanation. It carried within it an unspoken admission, an old memory they had tried to bury, and a fear they had long ignored whenever they looked at their daughter. The mother lowered her head, as though she fully understood what her husband's question meant.
The father slowly clenched his fist, then suddenly turned toward his children standing at the door. His voice thundered with a sharp command that left no room for argument:
— "Out… now! Immediately!"
The children froze in place, startled, then began to retreat step by step. One of them asked in a trembling voice:
— "Dad… Mom… why are you shouting like that?"
But the father didn't answer. His eyes followed them until they were gone, his features rigid, carrying a fear they had never seen in him before. He waited until they had all left, then strode quickly to the door and slammed it shut, as though afraid they might overhear what was about to be said—or witness what was about to unfold.
When he turned back to his wife, his face was drawn tight with visible worry, his eyes sunk deep in heavy thought. This time, he made no attempt to hide his unease, nor to deny the truth he had feared confronting for years. The mother, still kneeling beside Nariman, stroked her daughter's hair with a trembling hand, yet her gaze never left her husband's eyes, as if silently begging him to confirm what she had dreaded all along.
The mother approached her daughter with hesitant steps, her heart pounding so fiercely she thought it might leap from her chest. She knelt beside her, trying to hold her trembling hands, but Nariman thrashed violently, as though trying to slip from her arms.
Her mother's voice shook as she spoke, trying desperately to sound calm:
— "My daughter… there's nothing there, believe me. It's only illusions… just illusions. No one wants to hurt you. We are all here with you. Look at me—look at your mother's face… nothing will happen."
But her words couldn't reach Nariman's mind. The girl's gaze was fixed on the corners—on the shadows thickening, stretching along the walls, as if rising from the folds of darkness to take on living form. The shadows extended twisted, elongated arms, cold and creeping, inching closer toward her trembling body.
Nariman gasped sharply, her eyes locking onto the blackened arm that nearly brushed her leg. She tried to retreat deeper into the corner, but there was nowhere left to go. Her mother squeezed her hands tighter, desperate to anchor her in place:
— "There's nothing there, my child, believe me… it's all in your imagination. Don't look at them… look only at me!"
But the shadows did not stop. They slithered closer, curling around her, as if preparing to strike.
Nariman let out a scream that tore through the house—no ordinary cry of a child, but something deeper, older, far stronger. In that instant, she raised her hand violently before her face, a primal defensive gesture, as if to fend off the unfendable.
And then—
An immense force erupted from her body, surging outward like a raging vortex. An invisible pressure filled the room, felt by everyone within. The air trembled, windows rattled so violently they nearly shattered, and dust burst from the shelves, raining down in suffocating clouds. And the wave didn't stop at the walls; its echo seemed to sweep far beyond, as though for one fleeting moment, it engulfed the entire world.
Her body quivered, her eyes stretched wide open—but they were no longer as they had been. In a single moment, her hair drained of all color, spilling into pure white, as stark as snow in the darkest night. Her eyes blazed crimson, and within each one, a galaxy spun—tiny universes, born from the depths of the cosmos itself. Yet they were not symmetrical; the galaxies tilted slightly, giving her gaze a strange distortion, an unsettling imbalance that inspired both terror and awe.