She stumbled toward the ripple, heart hammering. As she reached out, the image flickered—her old scarf, worn around Amanda's trembling fingers… her father's drawing… her family's faces, etched with grief and love.
Tears stung her eyes.Mira sat alone on the velvet bench in the hollow dollhouse parlor, head resting on her knees. The Collector's spell still pulsed in the air—heavy and invisible, like grief soaked into the wallpaper.
She felt frayed. Not broken, but unraveling.
The garden outside never changed. The birds never moved. The sun never set.
And yet, today… something was different.
The air quivered.
It was faint, like a tremor beneath her ribs. Not pain—more like warmth. Like memory.
She stood slowly, hands gripping the windowsill, and squinted out at the painted trees. Nothing had moved, but something had shifted inside her.
A thread had been tugged.
She turned. In the center of the room, a thin ripple formed in the air—like a pebble dropped in still water. And from that ripple, a sound emerged.
Soft. Familiar.
Her mother's voice.
Not clear, not complete. But a whisper, trembling with sorrow and hope.
"Mira…"
Her name, spoken like a prayer.
They remembered her.
They were calling her.
The spell around her pulsed again, stronger now. The Collector's magic trying to twist that warmth into guilt. Trying to make her believe she didn't deserve to go back. That they were better off without her.
But now Mira could see through it—see the lie curled behind every smile the Collector had worn.
She wasn't the reason her parents had fought.
She wasn't a mistake.
They loved her.
And they hadn't given up.
She closed her eyes and placed her hands on the ripple. It sparked—just for a moment—and a voice, clear and full of fire, echoed through the dollhouse.
"We're coming for you."
It was Detective Monroe.
Mira exhaled. Her fingers gripped tighter.
"Then I'll hold on," she whispered. "I'll fight."
She didn't know how much time she had left.
But for the first time since she'd made her wish—
She wasn't alone.