VERSIONS OF US

CHAPTER 10

I didn’t sleep.

Even after the mirror pulsed and reality shifted back to my bedroom, the weight in my chest didn’t lift. My bones felt wrong—like they belonged to someone else, someone older. Someone who remembered more than I could bear.

The photo was still on my desk.

The girl in the nightgown.

And my mother.

Smiling.

I stared at it until my eyes ached. Nothing about it made sense. The photo looked decades old, the grain soft, the edges curled like time had tried to erase it. But there they were—side by side. Familiar. Comfortable.

I tried calling my mom again.

No answer.

The last time I saw her, she was humming in the kitchen like nothing was wrong. Like the world hadn’t cracked at the seams. Like red ribbons and disappearing keys were just part of our ordinary life.

They weren’t.

And now, the one person who might have had answers was gone.

I pulled my jacket on, slid the photo into the inner pocket, and left the house before the sun had a chance to rise. The air outside was thick with dew and silence. The kind of quiet that felt watched.

I needed to talk to someone.

And there was only one person left who might believe me.

Beverly.

—

She lived in a flat on the edge of town, above a shop that always seemed closed. We hadn’t spoken in weeks. Not since the night she stormed out of my house, angry at something I said. Or maybe something she didn’t want to say. We hadn’t been the same since Eli disappeared.

I knocked.

No answer.

I knocked again—louder.

Still nothing.

Then, just as I was about to turn away, the door creaked open.

Beverly stood there in a threadbare hoodie and socks, her eyes red like she hadn’t slept either. Her expression faltered when she saw me—confusion, recognition, and a flicker of something else. Worry, maybe. Or fear.

“Jasmine?” she said, like she didn’t trust her own voice.

“I need to talk to you,” I said. “Please.”

She stepped aside.

—

Her apartment was small, cluttered, lived-in. Books stacked in towers, half-drunk cups of tea abandoned on every flat surface. She gestured for me to sit, but I paced instead, words catching in my throat.

“I think someone’s messing with my head,” I blurted.

Beverly didn’t flinch. She just crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. “What happened?”

I told her everything. The storage room. The message on the wall. The cassette tape. The mirror. The girl in the field. The photo.

Her silence grew heavier with every word.

Finally, she moved to her bookshelf, pulled out a worn notebook, and flipped through it until she found a page she was looking for.

“I didn’t think you’d come back to this,” she said. “Not after last time.”

“What do you mean ‘last time’?”

Beverly looked at me, solemn. “You’ve been here before.”

I froze. “What?”

She handed me the notebook.

On the page: a crude drawing of the symbol. The cracked eye.

“I didn’t draw this,” I said.

“You did,” she replied. “Three months ago. You came to me, rambling about doors and memories and voices. Then the next day… you forgot. Said it was just a dream.”

That couldn’t be true. I would remember something like that. Wouldn’t I?

“Why didn’t you remind me?” I whispered.

“I tried. You shut down. You begged me not to say anything. Said if I did, they’d find you.”

A chill rippled through me.

“They?”

Beverly nodded slowly. “You never said who. Just that they were watching. That they could rewrite things. Memories. And that you weren’t the first.”

I sat down hard, the air knocked out of my lungs.

“Versions,” I said softly. “The girl in the dream… she said there used to be more of us.”

Beverly flinched at that. Not much—but enough.

“You’ve seen her too,” I said.

She didn’t deny it.

Instead, she opened her drawer and pulled out a box. Inside was a cassette—identical to mine. Smudged label: J-1

“You had one,” I whispered.

She nodded. “I didn’t listen to it. I was too scared.”

I reached for the player, heart racing.

“No,” Beverly said, placing her hand over mine. “Not here. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

She glanced out the window, as if expecting something—or someone.

“Because they might be listening.”

I stared at her, the fear rising again. “Who are they?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know. But I think… they’re trying to make something. Build something. Out of us.”

The words made my skin crawl.

I pulled out the photo.

“This girl,” I said. “She’s the same one. From the dream. But here—she’s with my mother.”

Beverly took the photo and studied it for a long time. Her face paled.

“What is it?” I asked.

She looked up, voice trembling. “That’s not your mother.”

“Yes, it is—”

“No, Jas. That’s my aunt. She died when I was seven.”

—

We sat in silence for what felt like hours. I didn’t know which part disturbed me more—the girl who haunted my dreams or the woman in the photo who wore my mother’s smile.

“They’re connecting things,” Beverly said at last. “Lives. Memories. Identities. Stitching them together like patchwork.”

“But why?”

She shook her head. “Maybe they’re trying to create a version that works. One that doesn’t break.”

I didn’t want to understand. But I was starting to.

If there had been other versions of me—ones that made the wrong choices—then maybe everything happening now was some test. Some design.

“They said Door Three wasn’t mine,” I muttered. “Not yet.”

Beverly looked up. “You saw it?”

I nodded. “But I didn’t open it.”

“That’s good,” she said quickly. “Don’t. Not until you’re ready.”

“How will I know?”

She sighed. “When the door wants you, it opens. Whether you’re ready or not.”

—

We stayed there, sitting in the quiet, long after the sky turned gray.

At some point, Beverly dozed off on the couch.

I couldn’t.

I stood at the window, watching the street below. Every passerby looked suspicious. Every movement behind the curtains made my heart jump.

Then—just before dawn—I saw it.

A figure across the street.

Still. Unmoving.

Wearing a nightgown.

The same girl.

Just standing there.

Looking up at me.

I blinked—and she was gone.