The ruins didn't let go easily.
Ash clung to her coat, her boots, her fingernails. Even after she left the burned carcass of the house behind, Lena could still smell it—smoke, char, something older and more bitter. It had followed her home like a parasite.
She didn't remember the train ride back.
Or unlocking the door.
Only that she was suddenly in her apartment again, coat still on, keys dangling from her fingers like a forgotten question.
She stared at them. Her hand trembled. She couldn't tell if it was from the cold… or the fear.
The fear of what she remembered.
The fear of what might come next.
She set the keys down on the counter. Her body moved on autopilot.
She filled the kettle.
Lit the stove.
The flame snapped to life with a hiss.
Then she stood there, staring blankly at the burner, the orange glow licking at the bottom of the steel like it knew her. Like it remembered her too.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
The kettle began to shriek.
And still, she didn't move.
Her eyes remained locked on the flame—entranced.
It wasn't just fire anymore. It was truth. A mirror. A voice. A presence.
The kettle was screaming again.
Lena stared at it, unmoving. Steam curled like fingers around her face, warm and wet. She didn't remember putting it on. She didn't even remember standing up.
"Shut up," she said softly.
The kettle continued to wail.
"Shut. Up."
She slowly reached out and gripped the handle.
It seared instantly.
She didn't scream.
Didn't even flinch.
Pain lanced up her palm, but she didn't drop it. She laughed instead—short, breathless, and cracked.
The sound didn't feel like hers.
Her hand throbbed. Blisters already blooming.
Still she held it, watching the red skin rise, pulse, blister. It fascinated her.
She yanked it off the heat, slamming it down on the stove. The whistle died in a sharp metallic gasp.
"Pain is real," she whispered. "This is real. I'm still here."
A pause.
Then another voice in her head—calm, cruel.
Or maybe the pain is part of the dream.
She blinked.
The room tilted.
Then everything unraveled.
Fifteen minutes later, she sat on the kitchen floor, rocking slightly, her hand wrapped in a damp towel, humming something tuneless.
Her eyes flicked to the hallway.
She saw the shadow again.
Or did she?
"Are you back?" she asked.
Silence.
"Come on. Don't be shy. You were laughing last time. Laugh again, you coward."
A voice in her head said: "There's no one there."
Another voice answered: Then who are you talking to, Lena?
She blinked. Then giggled.
Dr. Rowe's office felt smaller today. Too bright. Too clean. The walls were watching her.
"I feel better," Lena said.
Dr. Rowe blinked, surprised. "You do?"
"Mhm." She smiled, all teeth.
Dr. Rowe tilted her head. "
Lena, what happened with your hand?"
"I made tea. Burned myself. Feels like truth."
"I touched the truth," she said, grin widening. "It screamed. I didn't."
Dr. Rowe's pen hovered over her notes.
"And how are your dreams?" she asked gently.
"Vivid," Lena whispered.
"I see him now. More clearly. He's always smiling. Like he's proud of me."
Dr. Rowe sat straighter. "Proud of you?"
"Yes," Lena said sweetly. Then her smile dropped. Her eyes hardened.
"Because I didn't hesitate."
"Didn't hesitate… to do what, Lena?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"To hurt him. Again. And again. Until he was nothing but noise."
Dr. Rowe's lips parted, unsure.
Then Lena's face shifted again. She blinked rapidly. Confusion settled like dust over her features.
"Wait—wait, no. That's not right. I didn't… I wouldn't—"
"Lena—"
"I WOULDN'T DO THAT!" she screamed.
lurching to her feet. The chair clattered backward. Her breathing grew erratic, chest heaving.
And then just as suddenly—silence.
She sat back down. Smoothed her hair.
"I'm sorry," she said, calm as glass.
"I just had a moment."
Dr. Rowe's fingers curled tightly around her pen
That night, Lena tore every mirror out of her apartment.
She couldn't look at herself.
Because sometimes, when she did—her reflection didn't move the same way. It lagged, just a second behind. Smiling when she wasn't. Tilting its head when she stood still.
And its eyes… weren't hers.
So she shattered them.
Every. Last. One.
And then sat in the shards, humming.
"I'm not crazy," she whispered to the broken glass.
"You're crazy. All of YOU!!."
She picked up a jagged piece, held it to her throat.
Her reflection in the fragment grinned.
"HHAHAHAH"
She dropped it.
Later, wrapped in a blanket, she scrawled notes in a journal she didn't remember starting.
"Who was he? Why do I feel power? Why am I not sorry? Why do I miss the fire?"
She turned the page.
Another entry—written in her handwriting, but she didn't remember writing it.
"You did it. You liked it. Stop pretending."
She stared at it.
Then ripped the page out and chewed it.
Swallowed it whole.
In the deepest part of the night, she stood by her window.
Below, the city breathed, unaware.
Her lips moved, but no sound came.
She felt like a vessel.
Something was waking in her.
Something that had been sleeping beneath the ash.