For a second, I forget how to breathe. The room tilts, just slightly, like the capital has finally succeeded in making me dizzy for good. My fingers curl into the fabric of my skirt so hard it wrinkles because if I let go of something physical I’m afraid I’ll float away on shock alone. The woman in the white coat stares at me like she’s the one seeing a ghost. My sister’s eyes, Melody’s eyes, hold mine. Brown, like mine, but darker at the edges. Familiar in a way that cracks my ribs open. “No,” I whisper again because my mind refuses to accept the shape of her face. “No. You’re.” “I’m here,” she says, voice unsteady for the first time I’ve ever heard. Melody Barns, my older sister who vanished into the woods and came back only as an empty chair, takes one step toward me. Then another, slower, like she’s afraid I’ll break. My throat burns. My eyes sting. I hate crying. Crying makes you weak, and weakness attracts attention, and attention gets you hurt. But this isn’t weakness.
Last Updated : 2025-12-21 Read more