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Mira doesn't remember collapsing.
That's the first lie.
She wakes up on your couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells like detergent and something faintly unfamiliar—ozone, maybe. Her eyes flutter open slowly, unfocused but calm.
Too calm.
"Hey," she murmurs. "Why am I so tired?"
You sit beside her, heart pounding, watching her chest rise and fall. Even. Controlled. As if her body has already relearned how to exist.
"You fainted," you say carefully. "In the stairwell."
She frowns. "I don't faint."
"I know."
She stretches her fingers, examining them like they're new. For a moment—just a moment—you swear her hand hesitates, like something else is checking how it works.
Then she smiles at you.
It's her smile.
But it lands wrong.
"I had the strangest dream," she says lightly. "Someone was standing at the end of my bed. I couldn't see them. But I knew they were smiling."
Your stomach drops.
"What did they want?" you ask.
Mira shrugs. "Nothing. They were just… waiting."
You don't tell her what that means.
You don't tell her anything.
Because he's there.
Not visible.
But close.
Watching her with a stillness that feels like calculation.
It has already nested, he says quietly, from the faint hum of the refrigerator.
You swallow. Can you remove it?
A pause.
Not without removing her.
Your breath stutters.
"No," you whisper aloud.
Mira tilts her head. "What?"
"Nothing," you say quickly. "Just—stay here tonight. Please."
She studies you for a second, then nods. "Yeah. I don't really want to be alone."
That night, she sleeps.
You don't.
You sit on the floor beside the couch, back against it, eyes fixed on her face. Every small movement feels amplified. Every shift of breath sounds like a decision being made somewhere you can't see.
At 2:13 a.m., her eyes open.
She doesn't wake.
She just… opens them.
They don't focus on you.
They focus on the ceiling.
Her lips part.
A sound slips out—not a word. Not a breath.
A frequency.
Your skin prickles violently.
"Hey," you whisper. "Mira?"
Her eyes blink.
The sound stops.
She rolls onto her side and continues sleeping.
Behind you, the air tightens.
It's teaching her how to listen, he says.
Your throat burns. Teaching her what?
How to make space.
The days that follow are subtle.
That's what makes them unbearable.
Mira starts forgetting small things. Not names or dates—those would be obvious—but transitions. How she got from one room to another. Why she opened an app. What she was about to say.
She laughs it off.
"Guess I'm more stressed than I thought."
You notice other things.
She stops blinking as often.
She sleeps less, but never seems tired.
Sometimes, when she laughs, it comes half a second too late—like something decided it was appropriate.
One afternoon, you catch her standing in your kitchen, staring at the knife block.
Not touching it.
Just… observing.
"Mira?" you say.
She turns.
Her eyes look darker.
"Did you know," she says slowly, "that most accidents happen in familiar places?"
Your heart slams. "Why are you thinking about that?"
She blinks. The moment shatters.
"I—what?" She shakes her head, frowning. "Sorry. That was weird."
She doesn't remember saying it.
The episodes escalate at night.
She wakes gasping, clutching her chest, claiming she can't breathe. You sit with her until it passes, rubbing her back, murmuring reassurances you don't believe.
One night, as she trembles in your arms, she whispers—
"It doesn't like you holding me."
Your blood runs cold.
"What doesn't?" you ask.
She stiffens.
"…I don't know."
But you do.
It's learning how to speak through her, he says grimly.
Soon, it won't need fear to open the door.
You corner him the next morning, voice shaking with rage and desperation.
"You said you were guarding me," you hiss. "She's dying right in front of me."
"She is being rewritten," he corrects.
"That's worse!"
"Yes," he agrees. "Which is why you must stop interfering."
You stare at him. "You want me to let it take her."
"I want you to stop anchoring her here," he says. "Your presence comforts her. Comfort slows possession—but does not prevent it."
You shake your head violently. "I won't abandon her."
His gaze sharpens.
"Then you will watch."
That evening, Mira sits beside you on the couch, scrolling on her phone.
"Do you ever feel," she asks casually, "like something's been borrowing your thoughts and putting them back wrong?"
Your chest constricts.
"Yes," you whisper.
She smiles faintly. "Good. I thought I was alone."
Her phone screen flickers.
Words appear, then vanish.
She doesn't notice.
You do.
Later, as she brushes her teeth, you catch your reflection in the mirror—
And behind you, for a split second, she smiles without moving her face.
You whirl around.
Mira is rinsing her mouth, eyes unfocused.
"Did you say something?" she asks.
You can't answer.
Because from the shadowed corner of the bathroom, something unseen exhales—
Satisfied.
It won't kill her yet, he says quietly.
It's too interested.
Your hands tremble.
Interested in what?
He looks at Mira.
Then at you.
In how far you'll go to save her.
Mira turns off the light and walks past you, brushing your arm.
Her touch is cold.
And for just a moment, as she passes, you hear a whisper layered beneath her breath—
"So close."
You stand alone in the dark, shaking, with the horrifying certainty that Mira is no longer being hunted.
She is being prepared.
And the thing inside her
is learning how to love you back.