The night did not press gently against the windows of Elara's room, for it leaned instead like a weight that listened, its silence too deliberate to be mistaken for peace, its stillness too complete to be natural.
Elara stood alone beside the mirror, her reflection dim in the low light, her posture upright yet tense, her fingers resting lightly against the edge of the table as though grounding herself against something unseen.
The room behind her remained untouched, every object in place, every shadow still, yet the air itself felt altered, thickened, as though it carried breath that did not belong to her.
Her gaze lifted slowly to meet her own eyes, searching, measuring, questioning what had begun to shift within her long before she had chosen to accept it.
"…who are you," she whispered.
The question did not leave the room.
It sank inward.
