I didn’t mean to break any rules.

I didn’t mean to walk into the ICU like I belonged there, or to brush my fingertips across a stranger’s palm like it was the most natural thing in the world. I definitely didn’t mean to set off a chain reaction that would drag my son and me out of our safe little life in suburban St. Paul and straight into a story I’d spent my whole adulthood trying to bury.

But grief makes you careless. Fear makes you stupid. And love—love makes you do things you can’t explain.

The hospital lobby smelled like floor wax and burnt coffee. The receptionist barely looked up when she told me my eight-year-old son had been “moved.” Moved. Like he was a box in storage, not my kid who’d had his appendix out the day before.

So I did what every mom does when her stomach drops: I followed the instructions. I went upstairs. I went higher. I walked into a quieter, colder floor where the sign on the wall warned AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

And then I found Room Three.

The lights were dim. Machines beeped in a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat on a loop. A woman lay in the bed, pale as snow, her hair silvered across the pillow like spilled paint.

I remember thinking: She looks peaceful.

I remember thinking: She’s all alone.

I remember thinking: Just one touch.

When my fingers met her skin, the hospital disappeared.

A lake flashed into existence—shimmering, sun-blinding. A pale-blue house hugged the shoreline. And a man stood in the doorway like he’d been waiting his whole life for someone to come home.

Then a voice cut through the vision like a knife.

“What are you doing in here?”

—————————————————————————

1

My name is Elena Meyers, and before that July afternoon, my life was a straight line.

Not glamorous. Not exciting. But predictable in the way you learn to crave when you’re raising a kid alone.

I lived in a quiet suburb outside St. Paul, Minnesota—one of those neighborhoods where the lawns are trimmed like carpet and the loudest thing most nights is a sprinkler ticking on. I worked from home as a freelance graphic designer, bouncing between logos for small businesses and last-minute brochure edits for clients who always swore they’d send “the final copy” and never did.

Most days, I sat hunched over my laptop at the kitchen table while my son, Dylan, built Lego cities across the living-room floor—skyscrapers and tiny police stations and a plastic river he insisted needed a “bridge with a secret trapdoor.”

He was eight years old, all elbows and big opinions, with a grin that could make strangers smile back. He’d been through too much already—an absent father, a tight budget, and a mom who sometimes stared out the window like she was listening for something only she could hear.

But we were okay.

I told myself that all the time. We’re okay. We’re safe. We’re fine.

And mostly, it was true.

Except for the thing I’d inherited from my mother.

As a kid, I used to have these… flashes.

If I brushed someone’s hand on the playground, I’d suddenly see a dog running through tall grass. Or feel the sting of a scraped knee that wasn’t mine. Once, I bumped into an old woman at the grocery store and got hit with the smell of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume and a man’s angry voice—so vivid I’d started crying right there between the cereal boxes.

My mother called it a gift.

My father called it a curse.

After my mom died, I did what you do when something inside you scares you: I shoved it down until I could almost pretend it had never been real. I learned to keep my hands to myself. I learned to laugh off the weird moments. I learned to live in a world where reality had edges, where you didn’t accidentally fall into someone else’s life.

For twenty years, it worked.

Then Dylan’s appendix ruptured on a Wednesday, and by Thursday afternoon I was climbing the concrete steps of St. Paul Regional Hospital with a paper bag of fruit and a set of brand-new pajamas that still smelled like the store.

The sun was brutal, the kind of July heat that makes the air shimmer. Sweat clung to my back under my blouse by the time I reached the reception desk.

“Good afternoon,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m here to see my son. Dylan Meyers. He was in room seventeen.”

The woman behind the glass didn’t smile. She tapped at her keyboard like she’d been born doing it.

“Room seventeen is being renovated,” she said without looking up. “Your son’s been moved. Check with the nurse on the second floor.”

My hand tightened around the paper bag. “Renovated? I was here last night. Nothing—”

She cut me off with a shrug. “Second floor.”

I forced a polite nod and walked away, but my stomach had already started doing that slow, sick roll.

Nothing about this felt right.

2

The second floor was weirdly quiet. Not empty—hospitals are never truly empty—but quieter than it should’ve been at discharge time. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A janitor pushed a mop bucket down the hallway without making eye contact.

Room seventeen was exactly where it had been.

Only now it was… gone.

No bed. No monitor. No Dylan. Just a man in paint-splattered jeans holding a tape measure, staring at the wall like it had offended him.

“Excuse me,” I said, stepping into the doorway. “My son was in this room. Do you know where they moved him?”

The guy blinked like I’d interrupted a math problem.

“No idea,” he said. “I’m just the painter.”

My throat tightened. “Okay. Thanks.”

I backed out into the hallway and looked around, scanning for anyone—anyone—with a badge, a clipboard, a clue.

A young nurse finally appeared, pushing a cart of supplies. Her name tag read OLIVIA in block letters. She looked barely old enough to rent a car, her blonde hair yanked into a ponytail so tight it pulled her face into a permanent expression of strain.

“Hi,” I said, forcing calm into my voice. “I’m looking for my son. Dylan Meyers. He was in room seventeen.”

Olivia tapped her tablet, lips moving as she read. “Ah. Yes. He’s being prepared for discharge.”

Relief hit me so hard my knees almost went soft. “Great. Where is he now?”

“They moved him to room three on the third floor,” she said quickly, like she wanted the words out of her mouth as fast as possible. “Attending physician needs to sign off before release.”

I hesitated. “Third floor? I thought pediatrics was on this floor.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Doctor’s orders. Your things were already taken there.”

Something cold slid down my spine. It wasn’t what she said—it was the way she said it. Too quick. Too practiced. Like she was reading a line she’d been given.

“Can you walk me there?” I asked.

Her eyes flicked up—just for a second—and I saw something I didn’t want to see.

Fear.

“I—uh—I can’t,” she said. “I’m needed here. Just take the stairs.”

Then she pushed her cart past me like the conversation was over.

I stood there with my bag of fruit and pajamas, watching her disappear down the hallway, and every instinct in my body started shouting.

3

The third floor stairwell smelled like bleach and metal. The higher I climbed, the colder the air got.

When I reached the landing, the sign on the wall stopped me in my tracks:

INTENSIVE CARE UNIT — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

My mouth went dry.

ICU?

Dylan had his appendix out. He’d been annoyed about the IV and asking for pancakes. He wasn’t ICU.

I turned like I was going to go back down, but then the worst thought a mother can have slammed into me:

What if something happened and no one told you?

I pushed through the doors.

The hallway beyond was dimmer, quieter. The air-conditioning blasted cold enough to raise goosebumps on my arms. A man in scrubs rolled a piece of equipment past me, eyes tired, moving on autopilot.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Where’s room three?”

He slowed, scratching the back of his head. “Room three… down that hallway. But I’m new. Might wanna double-check.”

Down the hallway, a door sat slightly open.

A faint beep-beep-beep echoed from inside.

My heart hammered as I stepped closer, my shoes too loud on the waxed floor. I pushed the door gently.

And that’s when I saw her.

One bed. One patient. Middle-aged woman, pale, hair streaked with silver. A tube at her mouth. Monitors glowing softly beside her like tiny moons.

She didn’t look like my son.

She didn’t look like anyone I knew.

I should’ve backed out immediately.

I didn’t.

Because the second my eyes landed on her face, something deep inside me stirred—like a door handle turning in the dark.

Familiar.

Not in the way you recognize a person.

In the way you recognize a feeling.

She was alone. No visitors. No flowers. No voice saying her name.

My chest ached.

Without thinking, I stepped closer. The air smelled antiseptic and something heavier underneath—an almost metallic quiet.

I reached down and brushed her hand.

Just a light touch. A human thing. A reminder that someone was here.

The world exploded.

4

For an instant, the hospital vanished.

I stood on a shoreline with sunlight so bright it hurt my eyes. Water stretched out, shimmering silver-blue, rippling under a July breeze. A dock cut into the lake like a finger pointing to the horizon.

A pale-blue house stood right at the water’s edge, two stories with white trim and carved porch railings that curled like vines.

And in the doorway stood a man.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair. His posture held tension like he was bracing against something invisible.

Waiting.

For someone to come home.

My breath caught, but before I could move toward him the scene snapped away—like someone yanked a film reel mid-frame.

I stumbled backward into reality, gasping, heart slamming against my ribs.

The ICU room swam. The beeping monitor sounded louder now, too loud, like it was accusing me.

I stared at my hand, tingling like it had brushed an electrical wire.

No.

Not now.

Not after twenty years.

“Excuse me.”

The voice was sharp enough to cut through my panic.

I whipped around.

A man in a white coat filled the doorway, his hair graying at the temples, eyes the kind of tired you only see in people who’ve watched too much suffering and learned to keep moving anyway.

His badge read: DR. MICHAEL HARGROVE.

He glanced from me to the monitors and back again, suspicion tightening his face.

“This is the intensive care unit,” he said. “How did you get in here?”

My mouth opened, but my brain stalled. “I—I was told my son was moved here. Room three.”

His brow furrowed. “There must be a mistake. This is a restricted area. No visitors allowed unless cleared by staff.”

Heat flooded my face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

His gaze snapped to the bed. “What were you doing with her?”

I swallowed hard. “I… touched her hand.”

A pause.

Not the kind where someone is thinking.

The kind where someone is deciding what kind of person you are.

“I thought she might be alone,” I added, softer.

His expression didn’t soften much, but something shifted. He stepped into the room and checked the monitors with quick, practiced movements, adjusting a lead like he needed his hands busy.

“Her name is Margaret Reynolds,” he said. “We call her Maggie. She’s been here two weeks. Completely unresponsive.”

I blinked. “What happened?”

“She was found near Silver Pines Lake during a thunderstorm,” he said. “Witnesses said she was out there painting. Lightning struck a tree nearby. No burns, no visible trauma—but she hasn’t woken up.”

Silver Pines Lake.

My stomach dropped.

The lake in my vision.

“Does she have family?” I asked, voice barely steady.

Dr. Hargrove shook his head. “No ID when she came in. No wallet. Just paint brushes and a satchel. Police are still working on it.”

The room felt too small, like the air had thickened.

I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

But my mother’s voice—soft and insistent in memory—rose like a tide.

Tell the truth. It matters.

“I saw something,” I whispered.

Dr. Hargrove’s eyes narrowed. “You saw what?”

I stared at the woman in the bed, at her calm face, at the tearless stillness of her. “When I touched her… I saw a lake. A blue house by the water.”

The doctor went still.

Then, slowly, “Are you saying you had… a vision?”

“No,” I blurted, then hesitated. “I mean—yes. Sort of. I don’t know how to explain it. It felt like… her memory.”

Dr. Hargrove exhaled through his nose, a controlled sound that said he’d dealt with a hundred strange claims and wasn’t in the mood for another. “Listen,” he said, voice low, “whatever you think you experienced—keep it to yourself outside this room. Families cling to hope. False hope destroys people.”

“I’m not trying to give false hope,” I said, and I surprised myself with how steady my voice got. “But she doesn’t feel… gone. It’s like she’s trapped somewhere between.”

For a long moment he stared at me, weighing skepticism against something else—curiosity, maybe, or the desperate human tendency to want miracles even when you don’t believe in them.

Finally he said, “If you notice anything unusual, you come to me. Directly. No one else.”

He scribbled something on a chart, then stepped aside like he was giving me an exit before he changed his mind.

“And your son isn’t here,” he added. “He’s downstairs. Room thirty-two. Different wing. Someone gave you wrong information.”

My legs felt shaky as I backed toward the door.

I glanced at Margaret Reynolds one last time.

Her face was peaceful, but now I couldn’t shake the image of that blue house, the man in the doorway, waiting.

As I left, one thought lodged in my mind like a hook:

That vision wasn’t random.

Someone—or something—had reached for me.

5

Dylan was fine.

He was sitting up in bed in room thirty-two, animatedly telling a nurse about the Lego surgery kit he wanted for Christmas while his IV beeped like it was trying to keep up.

“Mom!” he grinned when he saw me. “They said I can have real food now. Like, not just Jell-O.”

Relief hit me so hard I had to grip the bedrail.

I kissed his forehead and smiled like I wasn’t still shaking inside.

But the whole time he talked about pancakes and video games, my mind kept flashing blue paint and lake water and a man’s silhouette in a doorway.

That night, after I got Dylan settled at my dad’s house and promised him we’d do something fun the next day—“like mini golf, right?”—I sat on my father’s porch under a sky full of stars.

The air was warm, cicadas buzzing in the trees. My dad, Samuel Meyers, sat across from me with a strip of leather in his hands, carving carefully like the world made sense as long as he could shape something with his fingers.

He didn’t look up right away, but he always knew when I was holding something back.

“Something’s on your mind,” he said.

I swallowed, my throat tight. “I touched someone today,” I admitted. “A woman in a coma.”

His knife paused.

“And?” he asked gently, like he already knew.

“And I saw things,” I whispered. “Memories. A house by a lake. A man in the doorway. It felt too real, Dad.”

He set the leather aside like it suddenly weighed too much.

“So it’s back,” he said quietly.

My stomach clenched. “What’s back?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The porch light caught the lines in his face, the ones grief had carved there over years.

“Your mother had it,” he said. “That sensitivity. She could touch people and see pieces of their lives. Sometimes things that hadn’t happened yet.”

I stared at him. “You… you never told me that part.”

He gave a tired half-smile. “Because I didn’t want you chasing it.”

The cicadas kept buzzing like nothing had changed.

“It took a toll on her,” he continued. “She couldn’t shut it off. She tried to help too many people. And it wore her down.”

I remembered my mom’s eyes—kind but haunted, like she was always listening for voices in another room.

“You think I’m like her,” I said, voice small.

“I know you are,” he replied, and there was no judgment in it. Just sadness. “That’s why I raised you to be careful. Keep your hands to yourself. Keep your life quiet.”

I stared out at the dark yard. “I thought it was gone.”

“So did I,” he murmured.

A silence stretched between us, heavy with everything we didn’t say about my mother’s death, about all the ways grief rearranges a family.

Then I heard myself say, “I can’t ignore it, Dad.”

He looked at me sharply.

“What if she’s trying to come back?” I pressed on, words tumbling out. “What if I can help her? What if I’m the only one who can—”

“You don’t owe that woman anything,” my father said, and for the first time his voice sharpened. “You have Dylan. You have a life that’s steady.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But since I touched her, I can’t stop thinking about her. And the lake—Dad, I saw it. Like I was there.”

His shoulders sagged, the anger draining into fear. “Your mother thought like that,” he said softly. “She believed she could save people. And in the end…”

He didn’t finish.

I reached across the small table and took his rough hand. “I’m not Mom,” I said. “I’m not going to lose myself in it.”

His fingers tightened around mine. “Promise me you’ll try,” he said. “Promise me you’ll come back to your son. No matter what you find.”

“I promise.”

But even as I said it, I knew the truth.

Whatever I’d touched in that ICU room had already wrapped its fingers around my life.

6

I woke before dawn with the lake in my head.

Not a dream exactly—more like my mind replaying a recording in perfect detail. Blue paint. White trim. A mailbox leaning slightly to the side. Sunlight on water so bright it made the world look sharpened.

By seven, I was packing a small bag with snacks and water while Dylan yawned at the kitchen table.

“Mom,” he mumbled, hair sticking up like a dandelion. “Why are we up so early? It’s Saturday.”

“We’re taking a little trip,” I said, keeping my voice casual. “I need to check on something for work.”

He squinted. “Work on a Saturday is illegal.”

I snorted, despite myself. “Tell that to my clients.”

By mid-morning, my car was rolling along rural roads that curved around Silver Pines Lake. The farther we drove from St. Paul, the more the landscape shifted—trees thickening, houses spreading out, water appearing between branches like glints of glass.

Dylan pressed his face to the window. “Whoa. Can we go swimming later?”

“Maybe,” I said, but my hands were tight on the steering wheel.

My GPS told me to turn onto Lakeside Drive.

And then I saw it.

The house.

Pale blue, two stories, white trim, carved porch railings curling like vines.

My breath caught like I’d been punched.

Dylan looked from the house to me. “Mom… you look like you saw a ghost.”

“Something like that,” I whispered.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I walked up the steps. My heart hammered as if it knew what my mind was trying to deny.

I lifted my hand to knock.

The door opened.

A man stepped out, tall and broad-shouldered, hair tousled like he’d run his hands through it too many times. Stubble shadowed his jaw. His eyes were tired, wary, the look of someone who slept lightly because life had taught him to.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

His voice was the same shape as the silhouette in my vision.

I swallowed hard. “Are you Ethan Reynolds?”

His gaze sharpened. “Yeah. Who’s asking?”

“My name is Elena Meyers,” I said, and suddenly I was painfully aware of how insane this looked—some woman on his porch with a kid behind her. “Yesterday I was at St. Paul Regional Hospital. Your mother—Margaret Reynolds—she’s there.”

The color drained from his face so fast it scared me.

“My mom?” he said, like he didn’t recognize the word. “Are you sure?”

I nodded. “She was brought in two weeks ago. Unresponsive. They found her near the lake during a thunderstorm.”

Ethan took a step backward, gripping the porch railing like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“No,” he whispered. “No—she said she was visiting a friend. She—she didn’t answer my calls, and I thought—”

He broke off with a rough inhale, eyes going glossy.

“I filed a missing person’s report,” he said, voice suddenly angry. “Last week. Nobody told me she was in a hospital bed this whole time.”

“They didn’t have her ID,” I said gently. “She came in unidentified.”

He dragged a hand down his face like he was trying to wipe away the reality.

Dylan shifted behind me, whispering, “Mom, is he okay?”

Ethan heard him and forced a shaky breath. “I’m okay, kid. Just… shocked.”

Then his eyes locked back on mine. “Why are you here?” he demanded, and the question held more than suspicion. It held the terror of hope—because if I was lying, it would destroy him.

I hesitated, then took the biggest risk of my life.

“Because when I touched her hand,” I said softly, “I saw this house. I saw you.”

He stared at me like I’d spoken another language.

“You—what?” he said.

“I can’t explain it,” I admitted. “But I think she’s reaching for home. For something familiar.”

Ethan’s throat worked as he swallowed. His eyes flicked past me to the lake behind the house, glittering under the sun like nothing bad had ever happened there.

Then he turned back, voice raw. “Take me to her,” he said. “Please.”

7

On the drive back, Ethan sat in the passenger seat like a man bracing for impact.

His hands stayed clenched, knuckles white. He asked questions in short bursts—Was she breathing on her own? Did she have brain damage? Why didn’t they call?—and I answered as best I could without making promises I couldn’t guarantee.

Dylan hummed softly in the backseat, sensing the heaviness but trying to fill the silence anyway. At one point he leaned forward between the seats and said, “My mom’s kind of like a superhero sometimes.”

Ethan let out a rough laugh. “Yeah? What’s her power?”

Dylan thought hard. “She finds people.”

Ethan’s eyes flicked toward me, something in his expression loosening for the first time.

At the hospital, the ICU doors looked even more intimidating with Ethan beside me. Like we were both standing at the edge of something that could either save us or break us.

Dr. Hargrove met us outside Margaret’s room, clipboard in hand.

“You must be her son,” he said.

Ethan nodded stiffly. “Ethan Reynolds.”

Dr. Hargrove’s voice stayed clinical, but his eyes held something quieter. “Your mother’s vitals are stable. No physical trauma. But she has not regained consciousness.”

Ethan’s jaw tightened. “So she’s just… stuck.”

“It’s unusual,” the doctor admitted. “It’s as if her mind is elsewhere.”

His gaze slid to me, and Ethan followed it.

“Ms. Meyers told you something yesterday,” Dr. Hargrove said carefully. “About what happens when she touches patients.”

Ethan’s eyes snapped to me. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” I said, voice shaking despite myself, “that when I touched your mom, she responded. The monitors showed neural activity changes.”

Dr. Hargrove nodded. “First fluctuation we recorded since admission. Small, but measurable.”

Ethan stared at me like he was trying to decide whether to believe in magic or call security.

Finally he said, hoarse, “If you think it’ll help her… do it. I don’t care how weird it is.”

The room went quiet except for the monitors.

I stepped to the bed, my hands trembling.

Margaret Reynolds looked peaceful, like she was sleeping off a long day. But I could feel it now—something faint and distant, like a radio signal just out of tune.

I took her hand.

Warm. Limp.

And then—

Color slammed into me.

A little girl with honey-colored hair on porch steps, clutching a wooden horse. A man with sawdust on his hands, smiling like she was the whole world. A teenage Margaret under a chestnut tree in the rain, laughing through tears as a boy kissed her.

A baby’s cry. A small apartment. Paint under her nails. Storms on canvas. Bills stacked high. Love braided through exhaustion.

I gasped as the visions came faster, the way a flood comes when a dam breaks.

Then, suddenly, I was back.

Margaret’s fingers twitched in my grip.

A single tear slid down her temple.

Ethan made a strangled sound. “Did you see that? Mom—she moved.”

Dr. Hargrove leaned in, eyes wide. “Motor response,” he murmured. “Neural activity spiking again.”

I squeezed Margaret’s hand gently. “Margaret,” I whispered. “You’re safe. Your son is here.”

Her lips trembled. A faint sound escaped her—half sigh, half name she couldn’t quite reach.

Ethan’s voice broke. “Mom. It’s Ethan. I’m right here.”

For one heart-stopping moment, her eyelids fluttered.

Then her body relaxed again, slipping back into stillness.

But the room didn’t feel hopeless anymore.

It felt like a door had cracked open.

And something on the other side had heard us knocking.

8

After that second touch in the ICU, I expected someone to tell me to leave and never come back.

Instead, Dr. Hargrove stood there staring at the monitor like it had just confessed a secret.

“Neural activity spiked,” he muttered, flipping a page on his clipboard as if paper could make sense of the impossible. “Motor response. Tear reflex. That’s… that’s not nothing.”

Ethan wiped at his face hard, like he was angry at his own tears. “So what now?” he demanded. “You said she’s stable. Then do something.”

Dr. Hargrove’s eyes lifted to him—steady, careful. “We are doing something. We’re keeping her alive while her brain does whatever it’s doing.”

“That’s not an answer,” Ethan snapped.

It was the first time I saw what panic looked like on him when it couldn’t hide behind anger. He wasn’t a man used to begging. But he was close.

Dr. Hargrove’s tone softened a fraction. “The truth? We don’t know what caused the block. We’ve run imaging. We’ve tested blood, spinal fluid, everything we can ethically justify.”

“Ethically justify,” Ethan repeated, bitterness coating the words.

Hargrove’s jaw tightened. “This hospital is not a playground for experiments.”

My stomach clenched at the way he said it, like he was answering someone who wasn’t in the room.

I swallowed and forced myself to speak. “I can come back. If… if it helps.”

Both men turned to me.

Ethan’s eyes were raw. “You will?”

I hesitated—because the truth was, I didn’t know what it would cost me. That brief flood of Margaret’s life had left my hands shaking and my chest tight like I’d been running. But when I looked at Ethan, and then at Margaret’s still face, I couldn’t say no.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “But I have my son. Dylan. He—”

“I’ll work around your schedule,” Dr. Hargrove said, too fast. Then he caught himself, like he didn’t mean to sound eager. He cleared his throat. “We’ll set times. Under supervision.”

Under supervision.

The words should’ve made me feel safe.

They didn’t.

Because as I stepped away from the bed, my eyes caught on something near Margaret’s pillow—an envelope, half tucked under the blanket like someone had shoved it there in a hurry. It wasn’t hospital paperwork. It looked old, worn, the corner bent.

For a second, I thought I saw my own last name scribbled faintly on the front.

Mey—

Then Dr. Hargrove shifted, blocking my view.

“Ms. Meyers,” he said, a warning threaded into his voice. “No touching without staff present. Understand?”

I nodded, throat tight.

But my skin prickled with a certainty I couldn’t explain.

That envelope had been placed there on purpose.

9

In the hallway, Ethan paced like a trapped animal while I tried to steady my breathing.

“I didn’t even know,” he kept saying, voice breaking into pieces. “I didn’t even know she was missing-missing. I thought she was ignoring me. I thought she was mad. God…”

I touched his arm gently. “You didn’t do this.”

He flinched like my touch burned, then softened. His eyes flicked to my hand.

“What you did in there,” he said hoarsely. “That wasn’t… normal.”

“No,” I admitted. “It’s not.”

He looked like he wanted to ask a hundred questions but didn’t know where to start. Finally he said, “Why you?”

I swallowed. “My mom had it. Whatever this is. I haven’t felt it in twenty years.”

Ethan’s brow furrowed. “And it just… came back. With my mom.”

I didn’t answer right away because the honest answer scared me.

It didn’t feel like it came back.

It felt like it woke up.

Like it had been waiting for something—and Margaret Reynolds had been the key.

A nurse rounded the corner, cart squeaking. For a second my heart jumped—Olivia.

But it wasn’t her. This was an older woman with sharp eyes and a clipped stride, the kind of nurse who ran floors with sheer force of will. Her badge said CHARGE NURSE: V. PETERSON.

She stopped when she saw Ethan.

“You’re the son,” she said. Not a question.

Ethan stiffened. “Yeah.”

Her gaze shifted to me, and something like recognition flashed through her expression, too quick to pin down. “And you’re…?”

“Elena Meyers,” I said carefully.

Her eyes narrowed. “Meyers.”

My skin went cold.

“I need to speak with both of you,” she said. “Now.”

Ethan looked ready to bite her head off. “If this is about visiting hours—”

“It’s not,” Nurse Peterson cut in. “It’s about how an unauthorized visitor got into my ICU and laid hands on my patient.”

My mouth went dry.

I opened my lips to explain, but she raised a hand.

“Save it,” she said. “Administrator’s office. Both of you.”

Ethan’s shoulders tensed. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”

Her eyes were flat. “We’ll see.”

As she turned and marched down the hallway, I caught a glimpse of someone farther down—blonde ponytail, moving fast, avoiding eye contact.

Olivia.

And when she looked up and saw me watching, her face went pale.

Then she disappeared around the corner like she was running from a ghost.

10

The administrator’s office smelled like lavender air freshener trying and failing to cover hospital disinfectant.

A woman in a blazer sat behind a desk too clean to be real, her hair swept into a neat bun. A plaque on her desk read: KAREN LINDHOLM — PATIENT SERVICES DIRECTOR.

She didn’t invite us to sit. Nurse Peterson stood behind us like a bouncer.

“Mr. Reynolds,” Lindholm began, voice polite in the way that means trouble. “You were located and verified as next of kin this morning. We’re glad we found you.”

Ethan’s jaw clenched. “Glad? My mother has been here for two weeks under Jane Doe status. That’s not ‘glad.’ That’s negligence.”

Lindholm’s smile stayed in place, like it had been stapled on. “It’s an unfortunate situation. But as Dr. Hargrove explained, your mother arrived without identification.”

“And the missing person report?” Ethan demanded. “The police didn’t cross-check hospitals?”

Nurse Peterson’s expression flickered. “That’s not our department.”

Ethan leaned forward. “Then whose is it?”

Lindholm lifted a hand. “Mr. Reynolds, I understand you’re emotional. But we’re here to address a separate issue.”

Her eyes moved to me. “Ms. Meyers. You entered the ICU without authorization yesterday. You touched an unresponsive patient.”

I felt every ounce of shame slam into me at once, hot and heavy.

“I was told my son had been moved,” I said quickly. “By a nurse—Olivia. She said room three—”

Nurse Peterson’s nostrils flared. “No nurse would send you to ICU for a pediatric appendectomy.”

“She did,” I insisted. “She had a tablet. She looked up my son’s name—”

Lindholm tapped a pen against her desk. “We reviewed the visitor log and security footage. No nurse escorted you.”

My stomach dropped. “She didn’t escort me. She told me to take the stairs.”

Lindholm’s smile thinned. “So you admit you entered a restricted area on your own.”

Ethan slammed his palm on the desk. “She’s a mom who was trying to find her kid. You want to punish her for your staff sending her to the wrong floor?”

Lindholm’s eyes flashed irritation. “Mr. Reynolds—”

“No,” Ethan cut in, voice sharp. “If you want to point fingers, point them at whoever lost my mother’s ID and failed to notify police.”

The air thickened.

Lindholm’s gaze sharpened, then shifted back to me. “Ms. Meyers, I’m going to ask a direct question. Did you, at any point, claim you have… special abilities?”

My throat tightened. Nurse Peterson’s stare bored into me.

I could lie.

I should’ve lied.

But Dr. Hargrove’s words rang in my head—if you notice anything unusual, come to me directly.

And the monitor spike had been real. Margaret’s tear had been real.

“I said I experienced something,” I answered carefully. “When I touched her hand. I—saw a memory. That’s all.”

Lindholm leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing like I was a specimen she didn’t trust. “And did you share this ‘memory’ with anyone besides Dr. Hargrove?”

“No,” I said. “Only him and Ethan.”

Lindholm looked at Nurse Peterson. Then she said, “Dr. Hargrove is a respected physician. But he is not authorized to approve… paranormal interventions.”

Ethan barked out a humorless laugh. “Paranormal interventions? That’s what you’re calling it?”

Lindholm ignored him. “Ms. Meyers, for the safety of our patients, you are not permitted to visit the ICU again without escort and formal approval.”

My chest tightened. “But she responded. The monitors—”

“That is not confirmed,” Lindholm said sharply, and it landed like a lie. “Dr. Hargrove may have perceived a correlation, but we do not run this hospital on perceptions.”

Ethan stood so fast his chair scraped. “You’re scared,” he accused. “You’re scared because something happened you can’t explain.”

Lindholm’s lips pressed together. “We are cautious,” she corrected. “And we will continue appropriate medical care.”

I opened my mouth to argue.

But then something caught my eye—on the corner of her desk, a file folder with a printed label half covered by her hand.

AURORA PROTOCOL — SILVER PINES CASE.

My blood turned to ice.

Aurora.

Silver Pines.

Case.

Those words weren’t hospital routine.

Those were… something else.

Lindholm followed my gaze and snapped the folder shut.

“Meeting over,” she said crisply. “Nurse Peterson will escort you out.”

As we stood, Lindholm added, almost as an afterthought: “And Ms. Meyers—if you continue to insert yourself into this case, we may have to involve law enforcement.”

The way she said “case” made my skin crawl.

Ethan stepped closer to her desk, eyes blazing. “If anyone should involve law enforcement, it’s me,” he growled. “My mother was missing and you people didn’t find her until a stranger showed up with a ‘gift.’ You want to threaten her? Try threatening me.”

Lindholm held his gaze, unblinking.

And for the first time, I saw something behind her smile.

Not professionalism.

Calculation.

Like she was measuring how much trouble Ethan could cause—and how to contain it.

11

In the hallway, Ethan breathed hard through his nose like he was trying not to explode.

“This is messed up,” he muttered. “This is… this is a cover-up.”

“I saw a folder,” I whispered. “Aurora Protocol. Silver Pines case.”

Ethan’s head snapped toward me. “What?”

Before I could answer, a soft voice behind us said, “Elena.”

My whole body jolted.

Olivia stood there, pale and trembling, her hands clenched around a stack of chart papers like they were a shield.

Her eyes flicked to Ethan. Then back to me.

“I need to talk to you,” she whispered. “Alone.”

Ethan stepped forward. “You’re the one who sent her to ICU.”

Olivia flinched like he’d slapped her. “I didn’t— I mean—”

“You did,” I said softly. “Why?”

Her eyes filled with tears so fast it looked like a dam breaking.

“Please,” she breathed. “If they see me—”

She glanced down the hall toward the administrator’s office, terrified.

Ethan’s voice sharpened. “Who’s ‘they’?”

Olivia’s lips trembled. “Not here,” she whispered. “Stairwell.”

Before we could stop her, she turned and hurried toward the metal door at the end of the corridor.

Ethan looked at me, jaw clenched. “This is a trap.”

“I know,” I whispered.

But something in Olivia’s fear felt real.

And if there was one thing my gift had taught me as a kid, it was that fear has a signature. A smell. A taste. Like metal on your tongue.

Olivia’s fear tasted like truth.

12

The stairwell was cold and echoing, the kind of place where every whisper feels amplified.

Olivia paced on the landing like she couldn’t stand still.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted the second the door shut. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to do it, but they told me—”

“Who told you?” Ethan demanded.

Olivia’s eyes darted between us. “Dr. Sloane. And administration. They said it was… it was part of a protocol.”

My stomach dropped. “Protocol?”

Olivia nodded frantically. “They have a list. Cases that come in—unidentified, neurological anomalies, coma states with… weird readings. They flag them. Silver Pines cases go in a special category.”

Ethan’s face went hard. “My mom is a category now?”

Olivia swallowed, tears spilling. “They called it Aurora. Like… like it’s a research initiative. They said if someone came in asking about a patient, and there was any… any sign of ‘sensitivity,’ we had to notify them.”

My hands went numb. “Sensitivity,” I repeated.

Olivia’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Like you.”

Ethan stared. “They knew about her?”

Olivia nodded once, helpless. “They knew your name, Ms. Meyers. Before you came. They had it in a file.”

My heart slammed. “That’s impossible.”

Olivia shook her head. “It’s not. I saw it. It said ‘Elena Meyers—maternal history flagged.’ I didn’t understand what it meant, but Dr. Sloane did.”

My mouth went dry. Maternal history.

My mother.

Ethan’s voice was low, dangerous. “So you sent her to ICU on purpose.”

Olivia squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes. They wanted you to touch her,” she whispered. “They said it might stimulate her brain. They said you were… a key.”

I stumbled back against the railing. “Why didn’t they just ask me?”

Olivia laughed, sharp and broken. “Because they can’t put ‘psychic mother with trauma’ on a consent form.”

Ethan stepped closer to her, looming. “Where is this Dr. Sloane.”

Olivia flinched. “Neurology. Fourth floor. But—Ethan, you don’t understand—this isn’t just curiosity. They’ve been waiting for your mom’s case. Like it’s… like it’s something they’ve seen before.”

My skin crawled. “Seen before where?”

Olivia wiped her face quickly. “I don’t know. I swear. I’m just a nurse.”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “Then why tell us?”

Olivia’s breath hitched. “Because this morning, after you—after you touched her again, there was a meeting. And Lindholm said—”

She choked on the words.

“What?” I pressed.

Olivia’s voice fell to a tremble. “She said if Ms. Meyers doesn’t cooperate, they’ll… they’ll isolate Margaret. Transfer her to a research facility. Somewhere private.”

My stomach dropped through the floor.

Ethan’s face went pale with fury. “They can’t do that. I’m her son.”

Olivia’s eyes were wide, desperate. “They can if they claim it’s for specialized care. And if they say your mother is a… unique case. A liability. An opportunity.”

I felt dizzy.

This wasn’t a hospital mistake.

This was a hunt.

And somehow, I was the target.

Olivia grabbed my wrist suddenly, fingers cold. “Please,” she whispered. “You need to be careful. Dr. Sloane—he talks about this like it’s destiny. Like it’s science and faith mixed together.”

Ethan swore under his breath. “What the hell is Aurora?”

Olivia shook her head. “I don’t know. But I know one thing—”

She leaned in, voice barely audible.

“Your mom wasn’t alone at Silver Pines the day she collapsed. Someone else was there.”

A chill ran through me.

Ethan’s voice cracked. “Who?”

Olivia swallowed hard. “I saw it in the notes. A witness statement they didn’t put in the official chart. Someone said there was a woman with her. A woman who left before paramedics arrived.”

My throat tightened. “What did she look like?”

Olivia’s eyes locked on mine, haunted.

“Red scarf,” she whispered. “And dark hair. That’s all they said.”

My chest tightened so hard it hurt.

Because I’d seen that scarf before.

Not in a vision—

In a photograph.

A photograph tucked in an old box in my father’s attic, of my mother at twenty-five, smiling beside a lake, a red scarf tied around her neck like a ribbon of fire.

13

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I sat at my kitchen table with my laptop open, pretending to work while Dylan built Lego cars on the floor and hummed the theme song to some cartoon.

My hands kept shaking.

I kept hearing Olivia’s words: They had your name in a file.

How?

I hadn’t told anyone at the hospital about my mother. I hadn’t spoken about the gift in decades.

And yet there it was—Aurora Protocol. Maternal history flagged.

I tried to tell myself Olivia was wrong.

But then I thought about the receptionist sending me upstairs. The empty room. Olivia rushing away. The way Dr. Hargrove had blocked that envelope on Margaret’s bed.

Pieces snapping into place.

Someone had guided me.

Like they’d set a trail of breadcrumbs and waited for me to follow.

Around midnight, my father called.

He didn’t usually call that late. My heart lurched as I answered.

“Dad?”

His voice was quiet, careful. “You’re awake.”

“I—yeah,” I whispered. “Dylan’s asleep. I’m just… thinking.”

A pause. Then: “You went back.”

It wasn’t a question.

My throat tightened. “How did you—”

“I know you,” he said simply. “When you get that look, Elena, you don’t let go.”

I swallowed hard. “Dad, something’s wrong. The hospital—there’s a protocol. They flagged Margaret’s case. They had my name.”

Silence.

Then my father exhaled slowly.

“Oh, God,” he murmured.

My skin went cold. “Dad. What is it?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he spoke, his voice sounded older than it had yesterday. “You need to come over,” he said.

“Now?” I whispered.

“Yes,” he said. “Bring Dylan.”

“Dad—”

“Elena,” he cut in gently but firmly. “There are things I didn’t tell you about your mother. Things I hoped you’d never have to know.”

My throat closed. “Like what?”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “Like the fact that she wasn’t the only one who had the gift.”

My blood turned to ice.

He continued, “And she wasn’t the only one who thought it could be used.”

14

I drove to my father’s house in the dark with Dylan half-asleep in the backseat, clutching his blanket like a shield.

“Where we going?” he mumbled.

“Grandpa’s,” I whispered. “Just… just for a little.”

He yawned and rolled onto his side, trusting me the way only a child can.

The porch light was on when we pulled in. My father was waiting at the door like he’d been standing there a long time.

He ushered us inside without saying much, eyes scanning the street behind me as if he expected someone to follow.

In the living room, he pointed me toward the couch. “Get Dylan settled,” he said.

I tucked Dylan under a quilt and kissed his forehead. He didn’t even wake.

When I turned back, my father was holding a cardboard box. Old. Worn. The kind you forget exists until it shows up and rewrites your life.

He set it on the coffee table.

“What is that?” I asked, though something in my chest already knew.

His jaw tightened. “Your mother’s,” he said quietly. “The things I didn’t want you to find.”

I stared at the box.

“I thought you threw her stuff out,” I whispered.

“I told myself I did,” he said. “But I couldn’t. Not all of it.”

He opened the flaps.

Inside were notebooks. Folders. Photographs. A red scarf.

My breath caught.

He lifted a photo and slid it toward me.

My mother stood by a lake, smiling like sunlight. Her dark hair was loose, and a red scarf was tied around her neck.

Beside her stood another woman.

Silver-streaked hair. A gentle face. A paint-smudged hand lifted as if waving.

Margaret Reynolds.

I couldn’t breathe.

“That’s—” I whispered. “That’s her.”

My father nodded slowly. “Yes.”

My mind reeled. “How do you know her?”

“I didn’t,” my father admitted. “But your mother did. She met Margaret years ago. Before you were born.”

My hands shook as I picked up the photo. Margaret looked younger, but it was unmistakable—those same calm features, the same quiet presence.

“They were friends?” I asked.

My father’s mouth tightened. “Not just friends.”

He pulled out one of the notebooks, flipping to a page marked with a ribbon.

I recognized my mother’s handwriting immediately—flowing cursive, slightly slanted, like she was always writing in a hurry.

My father didn’t hand me the notebook.

He read.

“Margaret says the lake is a door,” he murmured. “She says storms loosen the hinge.”

A chill crept over my skin.

He flipped another page. “They’re watching again. The ones who call it science but talk like it’s scripture.”

My stomach twisted. “Aurora,” I whispered.

My father’s eyes lifted to mine, grim.

“She wrote that name,” he said. “More than once.”

My voice trembled. “What is it, Dad?”

He swallowed hard. “I don’t know all of it,” he admitted. “But I know enough to tell you this—your mother got involved with people who wanted to study what she could do. Not in a gentle way. Not in a safe way.”

My chest tightened. “She never told me.”

“She tried to protect you,” he said softly. “After she realized what they were capable of.”

I stared at the notebook, heart pounding. “And Margaret was part of it.”

My father nodded. “Margaret had something too. Different, maybe. But connected.”

I looked down at the photo again—two women by a lake, smiling like they didn’t know the future was coming for them.

My hands clenched.

“They knew about me,” I whispered, horror rising. “They’ve been watching since I was a kid.”

My father’s expression broke, guilt flickering across his face.

“I think,” he said quietly, “that’s why I tried to bury it. Not just because it scared me. Because I was afraid someone would come looking for you.”

My throat tightened. “Dad, they already did.”

He reached across and grabbed my hand, squeezing hard. “Then we don’t let them take you,” he said. “Or Margaret. Or Dylan.”

My mind flashed to Dylan asleep on the couch, innocent and soft.

And suddenly the fear sharpened into something else.

Rage.

Because if Aurora had been lurking in the shadows of my life, waiting, then they’d just made a mistake.

They’d reminded me what it felt like to fight for someone.

15

The next morning, I returned to the hospital with my father’s box of evidence—just one notebook and the photo, tucked into my bag like contraband.

Ethan met me outside the ICU. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all—eyes bloodshot, jaw tight, hair shoved under a cap.

“You’re back,” he said, and relief flickered across his face before he smothered it.

“I had to be,” I whispered. “Ethan… my mom knew your mom.”

His whole body froze.

“What?” he breathed.

I pulled him into a quiet corner by a vending machine, away from wandering staff. I showed him the photo.

He stared at it like it might bite.

“That’s my mom,” he whispered.

“And that’s mine,” I said, voice shaking.

Ethan’s throat worked as he swallowed. “How—how is that possible?”

“I don’t know yet,” I admitted. “But there’s more. My dad kept her notebooks. She wrote about something called Aurora.”

Ethan’s face went hard. “Olivia mentioned Aurora. She said they’re trying to move my mom.”

“I know,” I said. “We have to act before they do.”

Ethan’s voice dropped. “How?”

I swallowed. “Get your mom discharged. Against medical advice if we have to.”

Ethan’s eyes widened. “She’s in a coma.”

“She’s stable,” I said quickly. “And she responds to me. If Aurora wants her, the safest place isn’t here.”

Ethan ran a hand over his face, breathing hard. “Dr. Hargrove won’t let us.”

“He might,” I said, and I surprised myself with the certainty. “He doesn’t trust them either.”

As if the universe was listening, Dr. Hargrove appeared down the hall, his expression tense.

He stopped when he saw us. His gaze slid to the notebook half peeking from my bag.

“Where did you get that?” he asked sharply.

My heart pounded. “My mother’s,” I said. “She knew Margaret. And she wrote about Aurora.”

Hargrove’s face went very still.

Then he said, quietly, “Come with me.”

He led us into an empty consultation room and shut the door.

For a moment, he just stood there like he was deciding how much truth to spill.

Then he said, “Aurora is not officially part of this hospital.”

Ethan snarled. “Then why is it in admin files?”

Hargrove’s jaw tightened. “Because people can be bought. Because research money makes administrators look the other way.”

I swallowed. “So it’s real.”

He nodded once, grim. “It’s a private neurological initiative that attaches itself to hospitals like a parasite. They claim they study rare coma phenomena. But they’re obsessed with one subset—cases involving what they call ‘cross-memory stimulation.’”

My skin crawled. “They think I can stimulate Margaret.”

“They think you can do more than that,” Hargrove said, eyes sharp. “Ms. Meyers, they flagged your mother years ago. She refused to cooperate. Then she died.”

My breath caught. “She didn’t just die,” I whispered.

Hargrove didn’t contradict me.

Ethan stepped forward, voice shaking with fury. “You’ve known this and you still work here?”

Hargrove’s face hardened. “I’m still here because if I leave, Aurora wins unchecked. I’ve spent years blocking what I can. But Margaret… Margaret slipped through. And then you showed up.”

His gaze moved to me. “You were never supposed to find her like that.”

“But you let me touch her,” I said.

He exhaled. “Because I saw the monitor spike. Because I’m a doctor, and if there’s even a chance to bring someone back, I take it.”

He looked exhausted—like the weight of his own choices was crushing him.

Ethan’s voice went low. “So help us get her out.”

Hargrove hesitated, then nodded once.

“I can sign discharge to home care,” he said quietly. “But administration will fight it. They’ll claim she needs specialized inpatient monitoring.”

“So we leave fast,” Ethan said.

Hargrove’s eyes flicked to the door. “And you don’t tell anyone you’re leaving until you’re in the car.”

My chest tightened. “We’d be taking her away from medical care.”

“You’d be taking her away from Aurora,” Hargrove corrected. “And I’ll arrange a private nurse for a few days. Someone I trust.”

Ethan swallowed hard. “And Elena?”

Hargrove’s gaze landed on me. “If you keep touching her, you’re going to get pulled deeper,” he warned. “Whatever your gift is—it’s not one-way. Memories bleed both directions.”

A chill slid down my spine.

Because he’d just put words to what I hadn’t told anyone yet—

That since yesterday, I’d been smelling oil paint in my sleep.

16

We moved Margaret Reynolds out of St. Paul Regional Hospital at 4:12 p.m. on a Tuesday.

I remember the time because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and I kept checking my phone like it could anchor me.

Dylan was at my father’s house, safe—my dad had insisted, and for once I didn’t argue.

Ethan wheeled his mother through the hallway in a chair with monitors strapped to her like a lifeline. Her eyes were closed, face calm, hair brushed neatly as if she was going somewhere dignified instead of being smuggled out of a hospital like contraband.

Dr. Hargrove walked beside us, clipboard in hand, his expression sharp and focused. He nodded at staff who passed, acting like this was all routine.

But I saw it—the tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze kept tracking corners.

We made it to the elevator.

The doors slid open.

And there, inside, stood Karen Lindholm.

My blood froze.

She looked at the wheelchair. Then at Ethan. Then at me.

Her smile flickered on, too polished. “Mr. Reynolds,” she said pleasantly. “Leaving so soon?”

Ethan’s grip tightened on the handles. “Discharge,” he said flatly.

Lindholm’s eyes slid to Dr. Hargrove. “Doctor. I wasn’t aware we’d approved discharge.”

Hargrove’s face didn’t change. “I’m the attending physician. I approve.”

Lindholm’s smile tightened. “Given the… unique nature of this case, hospital administration requires—”

“Requires what?” Hargrove cut in, voice suddenly hard. “A consent form for your private research friends?”

Lindholm’s eyes flashed. “Excuse me?”

Hargrove leaned closer, low enough only we could hear. “Back off,” he said, voice like steel. “Or I walk into the board meeting with everything. And you know exactly what I mean.”

For the first time, Lindholm’s mask slipped.

Something cold and furious flashed across her face.

Then she smiled again. “Of course,” she said, voice sugary. “We support family-centered care. Best wishes.”

The elevator doors slid shut between us.

And I didn’t breathe until we reached the parking garage.

17

Silver Pines Lake looked different in autumn than it had in my vision.

The first time I’d seen it—through Margaret’s memory—it had been sun-bright, shimmering, alive.

Now, as we drove up the winding road behind Ethan’s car, the trees around the water burned in gold and red, leaves swirling across the asphalt like sparks.

The blue house appeared through the trees like a promise.

My chest tightened.

This place wasn’t just a location.

It was a memory made real.

Inside, the house smelled faintly of pine cleaner and old paint. Ethan moved with a tense efficiency, clearing space for the medical bed Hargrove’s private nurse had arranged.

Her name was Renee—mid-forties, calm eyes, no nonsense. The kind of woman who could run a disaster with quiet competence.

“Vitals are stable,” Renee murmured as she checked Margaret’s monitors. “We keep her comfortable. We monitor breathing and heart rate. Minimal stimulation unless directed.”

Her gaze flicked to me, assessing. “You’re the one who got a response.”

I swallowed. “Yes.”

Renee’s expression didn’t show disbelief. It showed caution.

“Then you listen to me,” she said. “If you do what you do, and she starts seizing, or her heart rate spikes, we stop. You understand?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

Ethan hovered behind us like a shadow.

When Renee stepped away to set up supplies, he moved closer to his mother, eyes fixed on her face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

His voice cracked, and my chest ached for him.

I turned away, needing air.

That’s when I saw it—on the living room wall.

A painting.

A storm rolling over Silver Pines Lake, dark clouds swirling like a living thing. Lightning forked across the sky, reflected in the water like a fracture.

And on the shoreline, barely visible in the brush strokes, stood two figures.

One was Margaret.

The other—

A woman with a red scarf.

My breath caught.

Without thinking, I stepped closer.

My fingers lifted.

Just to trace the edge of the frame.

Just to—

My skin met the wood.

And the world tilted.

18

Cold wind slapped my face.

Rain hammered down, thick and heavy, turning the world into a blur. I stood on the shoreline of Silver Pines Lake in the middle of a storm, my clothes instantly soaked.

Margaret was there—older, hair whipped by wind, standing at an easel. She was painting like her life depended on it, brush slashing across canvas with desperate urgency.

“Faster,” a voice snapped behind her.

I turned.

A man stood under an umbrella, his face half-shadowed. Beside him, Karen Lindholm—only younger, sharper—held a clipboard.

And behind them was a third person.

A woman in a red scarf.

My mother.

My stomach clenched.

“Margaret,” my mother pleaded, voice strained. “We shouldn’t—this isn’t safe.”

“It’s the only time it opens,” Margaret shouted over the thunder. “You feel it too, Claire. Don’t lie to yourself.”

The man stepped closer, umbrella angled like a weapon. “Continue,” he ordered. “We need the mark.”

Lightning cracked so close it lit the world white.

Margaret’s brush froze.

Her eyes widened—not with fear, but with certainty.

“She’s coming,” she whispered. “She’ll find it.”

My mother’s face went pale. “No. Not my daughter.”

The man smiled, cold and thrilled. “Your daughter is the future, Claire. You can’t stop what’s meant.”

My heart slammed.

Then lightning struck.

A tree exploded in a burst of white fire. The shockwave hurled Margaret backward—her body crumpling like a puppet with cut strings.

My mother screamed.

The vision shattered.

I stumbled backward into the living room, gasping, hands trembling so hard I nearly dropped to my knees.

The smell of rain lingered for one horrifying second before fading.

Ethan grabbed my shoulders. “Elena—what happened? Are you okay?”

I couldn’t speak. My throat was locked tight.

Because in that vision, my mother had called herself Claire.

And I’d never heard her name spoken that way—never.

Because my mother hadn’t just been a woman with a “gift.”

She’d been part of something at Silver Pines.

And they’d been waiting for me.

19

That night, with Margaret sleeping upstairs under Renee’s watch, Ethan and I sat in the kitchen with mugs of coffee neither of us drank.

The house creaked softly as wind moved through the trees outside.

I told him everything.

The notebooks. The photo. The vision in the storm. My mother’s voice.

When I finished, the silence between us felt like a held breath.

Ethan stared at his coffee, knuckles tight around the mug.

“So my mom and your mom…” he said finally, voice rough. “They were connected.”

I nodded, throat tight. “And Aurora wasn’t just watching Margaret. They were watching the gift. They were watching… me.”

Ethan’s jaw flexed. “Then we don’t let them get you.”

I blinked at him. “You sound sure.”

His eyes lifted to mine, fierce. “I’m done letting people take things from me,” he said quietly. “I lost two weeks of my mother’s life because they didn’t bother to connect dots. I’m not losing her again. And I’m not losing you—because whether you like it or not, you’re in this now.”

Warmth flickered in my chest, tangled with fear.

“I have Dylan,” I whispered. “If Aurora comes—”

Ethan’s expression softened, but his voice stayed steady. “Then we protect him too.”

Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.

We both went still.

A moment later, Renee’s voice called down softly, “Ethan. Elena. Come up here.”

My heart slammed. We rushed upstairs.

Margaret lay in bed, her eyelids fluttering rapidly, like she was fighting through heavy water. Her fingers twitched against the blanket.

Ethan leaned over her, voice shaking. “Mom?”

Her lips parted.

A faint whisper escaped, barely audible.

“Storm…” she breathed.

My skin prickled.

Renee checked the monitors quickly. “Heart rate up. Oxygen okay. She’s… she’s responding.”

Margaret’s eyes cracked open, unfocused. She stared past Ethan like she couldn’t quite see him.

Then her gaze landed on me.

And something in her expression shifted—recognition, faint but real, like a candle sputtering to life.

“Elena,” she whispered.

Ethan froze. “Mom, it’s me—Ethan.”

Margaret’s brow furrowed. Her eyes darted to him, confusion flashing.

“I… I don’t…” she murmured, voice trembling. “I don’t know you.”

The words hit the room like shattered glass.

Ethan’s face collapsed.

Renee murmured, “It’s okay, honey. You’ve been through trauma. Just breathe.”

Margaret’s gaze stayed locked on me, fear and familiarity tangled together.

“You’re… the thread,” she whispered, voice breaking.

Then her eyelids fluttered again, and she slipped back into restless sleep.

Ethan stumbled backward like he’d been punched.

I caught his arm before he fell.

And in that moment, I understood something terrifying:

Margaret didn’t just recognize me.

Some part of her had been waiting for me.

Because whatever happened at Silver Pines Lake wasn’t an accident.

It was a message thrown into the future.

And it had finally been delivered.

20

The next morning, the house felt like it was holding its breath.

Silver Pines Lake lay still outside the windows, a sheet of gray-blue glass. The trees along the shore shivered in a light wind, leaves tapping against the panes like soft knuckles.

Renee had Margaret’s room set up like a miniature ICU—portable monitor, oxygen tank, suction, emergency kit. Everything neat. Everything controlled. As if control meant safety.

It didn’t.

Not with Aurora out there.

Not with my mother’s red scarf haunting my head like a warning flare.

Ethan stood in the hallway outside Margaret’s door, arms crossed, jaw tight. He’d barely spoken since she’d opened her eyes and told him she didn’t know him.

I kept replaying that moment—the way Margaret looked at me and called me thread.

Like I wasn’t just helping.

Like I was connected to something already tied around her life.

Renee glanced at me over her glasses. “You’re pale.”

“I’m fine,” I lied.

She didn’t buy it. “You need water. Food. You don’t get to collapse too.”

I nodded, but my stomach felt like it was full of stones.

Downstairs, a car door slammed.

Ethan’s head snapped toward the window. “Someone’s here.”

My pulse jumped.

He moved fast—quiet, controlled. He’d grabbed a baseball bat from the umbrella stand the night before, and he held it now like he’d been born with it in his hands.

I followed him to the front door, heart hammering.

Through the glass, I saw an old pickup truck and a man stepping onto the porch.

Not Aurora.

Not Karen Lindholm.

My father.

Samuel Meyers stood there with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his gray hair ruffled by wind. His leather-worker hands looked even rougher in the morning light, like he’d been carving worry into himself all night.

Ethan opened the door halfway, bat still behind his leg. “Can I help you?”

My father’s eyes slid past Ethan and landed on me. Relief and fear mixed in his face.

“Elena,” he said. “Where’s Dylan?”

My throat tightened. “Still with Mrs. Kline next door at your place. I didn’t want to bring him until—”

“Until you knew if someone would come after you,” my father finished quietly.

I nodded.

He stepped inside without waiting for permission, gaze scanning the house like he was checking exits.

Ethan lowered the bat a fraction. “You’re her dad.”

Samuel’s eyes measured him—fast, sharp. “You’re Margaret’s son.”

Ethan’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence. Then my father nodded once, like two men acknowledging a shared threat.

“We need to talk,” my father said, voice low. “All of us.”

21

We sat at the kitchen table with coffee that went cold and sunlight that didn’t feel warm.

I slid my mother’s notebook across to Ethan so he could see her handwriting for himself. The pages smelled faintly like old paper and lavender—the scent I suddenly remembered from childhood, the way my mom used to smell when she hugged me.

Ethan read in silence, eyes moving faster as his breathing got rougher.

My father watched him carefully. “Margaret kept the lake house even when money was tight,” he said. “Your mother—Claire—wrote that this place anchored her. Kept her… from drifting.”

Ethan’s voice came out strained. “My mom told me she bought it after my dad left. She said it was where she could hear herself think.”

My father nodded slowly. “Your mother met mine here,” I whispered. “That’s what the photo says without saying it.”

Ethan’s eyes lifted, glossy. “So they knew each other. And then Aurora—”

My father’s jaw tightened. “Aurora found them. Or maybe they found Aurora first. I don’t know which version is worse.”

I swallowed hard. “In the vision… Lindholm was there. And a man with an umbrella. He gave orders.”

My father’s gaze hardened. “A man?”

I nodded. “I couldn’t see his face clearly.”

Samuel leaned back, expression pained. “Your mother used to talk about a doctor,” he admitted. “Not Hargrove. Someone else. She called him Sloane once, maybe. She stopped saying the name like it burned her mouth.”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “Olivia said Dr. Sloane is neurology. Fourth floor.”

The air in the kitchen turned heavy.

My father’s hand curled around his mug so hard his knuckles went white. “If he’s still around,” he murmured, “then Aurora never left.”

Ethan’s voice dropped. “So what now? They’re going to come here?”

I opened my mouth, but Renee stepped into the kitchen doorway before I could answer.

Her face was tight. “Elena,” she said. “She’s awake again.”

My chest snapped tight.

Ethan was on his feet before I even moved. “Mom?”

We rushed upstairs.

22

Margaret lay propped against pillows, eyes open, unfocused but alert. Her gaze tracked the room like she was trying to place it.

When Ethan stepped into her line of sight, her expression tightened—confusion and fear, like she was looking at someone who felt important but didn’t come with a label.

“I—” she whispered, voice raw. “Where am I?”

Ethan swallowed hard. “Home,” he said gently. “You’re home.”

Margaret’s eyes darted toward the window, toward the lake beyond it. Something flickered—recognition, faint and painful.

“My… house,” she whispered, like she was tasting the words.

“Yes,” Ethan said, voice breaking. “Your house. I’m—”

He stopped himself.

Because last night had shattered him.

Because he couldn’t make her remember by force.

Margaret’s gaze slid to me, and her whole face softened by a degree.

“Elena,” she murmured.

I stepped closer, careful. “Hi, Margaret.”

Her fingers twitched against the blanket. “The thread,” she whispered again, brow furrowing. “You… you found me.”

Renee checked her vitals quickly, speaking in a calm voice meant to keep Margaret anchored. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Margaret,” she breathed. “Margaret Reynolds.”

“And do you know what year it is?”

She blinked slowly. “Two thousand… twenty-four.” Then her face tightened. “No—twenty-five? I… I don’t know.”

Ethan’s stomach dropped visibly, but I saw something else behind his expression too.

Hope.

Because she was talking.

Because she was here.

Margaret’s gaze slid back to the window. “There was a storm,” she whispered. “I was painting and there was… someone.”

My blood went cold.

Ethan leaned closer, voice shaking. “Someone who, Mom?”

Margaret’s lips trembled. “A man,” she whispered. “An umbrella. And Claire.”

My heart stopped.

My father, who’d come in behind us, went rigid.

Margaret’s eyes squeezed shut like the memory hurt. “Claire said… not my daughter.”

My knees almost buckled.

Ethan looked between us, confused. “Who is Claire?”

My father’s voice came out hoarse. “Her name,” he whispered, and it sounded like confession. “Claire was Elena’s mother.”

Margaret’s eyes opened again, wide with fear. “They want her,” she rasped, staring at me now. “They wanted her then. They want her now.”

My mouth went dry. “Margaret—who?”

Margaret’s breathing sped. Renee pressed a hand gently to her shoulder. “Easy. Breathe.”

Margaret’s voice shook as she forced the words out. “Aurora,” she whispered.

Ethan’s face went hard. “What is Aurora?”

Margaret swallowed, eyes glassy. “A door,” she whispered. “A study. A trap. They called it science, but it felt like… worship.”

My skin prickled all over.

“You have to remember,” I said, voice cracking. “We need to stop them.”

Margaret stared at me like she wanted to grab me and shake me. “You can’t stop them,” she whispered. “You can only close the lake.”

Then her eyes rolled slightly, her body going slack as if she’d spent her last ounce of energy on those words.

Renee cursed under her breath and adjusted the oxygen. “She’s fading,” she snapped. “Back off. Let her rest.”

Ethan stood frozen, hands hovering like he wanted to hold his mother but didn’t know if he was allowed.

I backed away, chest tight with panic.

Close the lake.

What did that even mean?

23

Later, while Margaret slept again, my father pulled me into the hallway like he couldn’t keep the fear inside his chest any longer.

“Elena,” he said quietly, “you need Dylan here.”

My stomach lurched. “No. Dad—Aurora—”

“Exactly,” he said, voice tight. “You need him where we can protect him. Not alone at my place where someone could—”

He stopped, jaw working.

My throat tightened. “You think they’d take him.”

My father didn’t answer.

Because we both knew the answer.

Ethan stepped out of Margaret’s room, face drawn and exhausted. “We need a plan,” he said bluntly.

My father nodded once. “Agreed.”

Renee leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “And that plan needs to include calling the police.”

Ethan scoffed. “And say what? ‘A secret coma cult called Aurora is coming for my mom and a psychic graphic designer’?”

Renee’s stare was flat. “No. You say a hospital tried to transfer your mother without consent and someone falsified records. You say you fear retaliation. Those words are real. Those words work.”

My father exhaled slowly. “Local sheriff,” he said. “Not St. Paul. Small town. Less political. Maybe.”

Ethan’s gaze sharpened. “Maybe. Unless Aurora already has roots here.”

A cold silence settled.

Then I remembered something that hit like a small bolt of lightning.

“The envelope,” I whispered.

All three of them turned to me.

“In the ICU,” I said. “By Margaret’s pillow. There was an envelope. And I thought I saw my last name—Mey—on it. Hargrove blocked it.”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “Why would your name be in her bed?”

My stomach twisted. “Because Margaret knew my mom,” I said. “And because Aurora knew me.”

Renee’s expression tightened. “If there’s anything in that envelope, it matters.”

Ethan’s jaw clenched. “Then we need it.”

My father’s gaze hardened. “Hargrove might have it.”

As if my thoughts had summoned him, Ethan’s phone buzzed on the counter downstairs.

He glanced at the screen, face tightening.

“It’s Dr. Hargrove,” he said.

Ethan put it on speaker.

Hargrove’s voice crackled through, low and urgent. “You need to listen. Right now.”

Ethan’s grip tightened. “What’s happening?”

“They’re moving,” Hargrove said. “Aurora’s people are here. Not staff. Private transport.”

My blood went cold.

“I stalled them,” Hargrove continued, voice clipped. “But they’re asking questions about the discharge. About Ms. Meyers.”

Renee’s eyes flashed. “Of course they are.”

Hargrove’s voice dropped. “They have a court petition template ready. Emergency guardianship, specialized care—paperwork that looks clean if you don’t know what you’re looking at.”

Ethan swore. “Can they do that?”

“Not legally without a fight,” Hargrove said. “But legality doesn’t stop them from trying.”

My father leaned closer to the phone. “Do you have the envelope from her pillow?”

A pause.

Then Hargrove said, “Yes.”

My heart stuttered.

“It was addressed to Elena Meyers,” Hargrove said quietly. “No stamp. No return address. It was already there when she came in.”

My skin prickled.

Hargrove continued, “I didn’t give it to you because I didn’t want Aurora to see it move. I didn’t want them to know I saw it.”

Ethan’s voice turned sharp. “What’s inside?”

Hargrove exhaled. “A key. And a note with an address. Silver Pines Lake. Your house.”

Ethan went still. “So she meant for it to come here.”

“Yes,” Hargrove said. “And that means Aurora may come here too.”

My breath came shallow. “Dr. Hargrove—what does the note say?”

Hargrove hesitated. “It says: If you’re reading this, the lake opened again. Don’t trust the hospital. Find the storm painting. Find what I hid behind it. Claire’s daughter can finish what we started—if she doesn’t lose herself.”

The room felt like it tilted.

The storm painting.

The one downstairs.

With my mother’s red scarf figure hidden in the brush strokes.

Ethan’s voice cracked. “What did she hide behind it?”

Hargrove’s voice went lower. “I don’t know. But Elena—whatever your gift is, Aurora thinks it’s a tool. They will come for you.”

My father’s face hardened into something I hadn’t seen in years—pure protective fury.

“What do we do?” I whispered.

Hargrove didn’t sugarcoat it. “You prepare. You gather evidence. You call law enforcement. And whatever you do—do not let Aurora get you alone.”

The call ended.

Silence filled the hall like smoke.

Ethan’s eyes met mine, steady despite the fear in them.

“Okay,” he said. “We find what she hid. Right now.”

24

Downstairs, the storm painting loomed on the wall like it was waiting.

Even in daylight, it felt alive—clouds thick with movement, water slick with reflected lightning. The shoreline was painted with such dark intensity it looked like you could step into it and disappear.

Ethan reached for it.

Renee caught his wrist. “Careful,” she warned. “If it’s hiding something, you don’t want to tear it.”

Ethan swallowed and lifted it gently off the wall.

Behind it was a small square of drywall that looked… newer.

My pulse kicked.

My father stepped forward, running his fingers along the edge. “This was patched,” he murmured. “Recently.”

Ethan’s voice was tight. “Mom did this?”

“Or someone did it for her,” Renee said.

My father went to the kitchen and came back with a flathead screwdriver. His hands were steady even as my whole body shook.

He pried carefully.

The drywall gave way with a soft crack.

Inside was a hollow space.

Ethan reached in and pulled out a small metal tin, the kind people used for sewing kits or old cookies. The lid was taped shut with layers of clear tape like someone was terrified it would open too soon.

My breath caught.

Ethan glanced at me. “You want to do the honors?”

My hands felt numb, but I nodded.

I peeled the tape back slowly.

The lid popped open.

Inside was a stack of photographs, a flash drive, and—my heart clenched—a folded red scarf.

Not my mother’s photo scarf.

A real one.

The fabric was worn soft, frayed at the edges, and the second I touched it, I felt a hum under my skin like a live wire.

Renee’s eyes narrowed. “Elena—don’t—”

But it was too late.

My fingers closed around the scarf.

And the world dropped out from under me.

25

I wasn’t in the living room anymore.

I stood in a room filled with paint fumes and fluorescent buzz—an office space turned lab. Cables ran across the floor. Clipboards. A camera tripod aimed at a chair in the center of the room like it was waiting to record someone breaking.

My mother sat in that chair.

Claire.

Her dark hair was pulled back, her red scarf tied tight around her neck like armor. Her eyes were tired but furious.

Across from her stood a man in a white coat.

Not Hargrove.

Not anyone I’d ever seen.

His hair was dark, his smile too calm.

Dr. Sloane.

He spoke like he was explaining something simple. “Claire, we’re not hurting anyone. We’re studying a phenomenon that could change the way we treat coma patients. Trauma. Memory loss. The brain locked behind a door.”

My mother’s voice was sharp. “You’re not studying it. You’re exploiting it.”

Sloane’s smile didn’t fade. “Words,” he said lightly. “We’re offering you purpose. You can see what others can’t.”

My mother’s hands clenched. “I can’t shut it off,” she hissed. “And you know that. You want to push it until I break.”

Sloane leaned in. “We want you to open the lake.”

My blood went ice-cold.

My mother’s eyes flashed. “The lake is not yours.”

Sloane’s gaze glittered. “It belongs to whoever can open it.”

A door creaked behind him.

Margaret stepped into the room, carrying a canvas, paint smeared on her fingers. She looked younger—stronger. Her eyes held the same calm intensity I’d seen in the ICU, but now it was sharpened into defiance.

“We’re done,” Margaret said flatly. “No more storms. No more tests.”

Sloane turned to her, voice smooth. “Margaret. You’re the anchor. Claire is the key. Together you can—”

“No,” Margaret cut in. “Together we can end you.”

Sloane’s smile tightened for the first time. “You’re emotional,” he said, and the contempt under the word made my stomach churn. “You’ll come around.”

My mother stood abruptly, chair legs scraping. “If you come for Elena,” she said, voice trembling with fury, “I will burn this whole thing down.”

Sloane’s gaze flicked, cold and calculating. “You’ll do what you always do,” he said softly. “You’ll try to save everyone.”

My mother’s eyes filled with tears she refused to let fall. “Not everyone,” she whispered. “Just her.”

Then Margaret stepped forward, grabbing the scarf off my mother’s neck.

“Give it to me,” Margaret said, voice urgent. “If something happens—if the lake opens again—this will carry your imprint. It will find her.”

My mother’s breath hitched. She pressed her forehead to Margaret’s for one fierce, desperate second.

“Promise me,” my mother whispered. “Promise me you won’t let him have her.”

Margaret’s eyes burned. “I promise.”

The vision jolted.

I saw a storm. I saw the lake. I saw Margaret painting like her life depended on it. I saw my mother running—running—running—with an envelope in her hand and terror in her eyes.

Then darkness.

Then—

I was back in the living room, the scarf clutched in my fist like a lifeline.

I gasped, chest heaving.

Ethan grabbed my shoulders. “Elena—hey—look at me. Breathe.”

My father’s face had gone pale. “What did you see?”

My voice shook as I forced the words out. “Dr. Sloane,” I whispered. “He’s real. He ran this. And my mom—she gave Margaret the scarf. She told her to use it to find me.”

Renee swore softly. “So Aurora isn’t just after your gift. They built their entire obsession around it.”

Ethan’s eyes went dark. “Then Sloane is coming.”

I swallowed. “And Margaret promised my mom she’d protect me,” I whispered, throat tight. “That’s why she hid this. That’s why she tried to get it to me.”

My father’s voice broke. “Claire,” he whispered, like saying her name could bring her back.

I forced myself to focus on the tin.

Inside were photos and a flash drive.

Evidence.

Proof.

Ethan reached for the flash drive. “What’s on it?”

Renee’s eyes narrowed. “Only one way to find out.”

26

Ethan’s laptop sat on the kitchen counter like a bomb we weren’t sure was safe to open.

He plugged the flash drive in.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then folders popped up—dozens. Labeled with dates, names, codes.

My stomach tightened as I scrolled.

AURORA SESSION LOGS
SUBJECT: C. MEYERS
SUBJECT: M. REYNOLDS
ENVIRONMENT: SILVER PINES — STORM CONDITIONS
RESULT: CROSS-MEMORY BLEED CONFIRMED

My hands started shaking again.

They’d documented my mother.

Like a specimen.

Like a project.

Ethan clicked a video file.

The screen filled with grainy footage of a room—my mother sitting in a chair, Dr. Sloane standing in front of her.

I covered my mouth.

Even through the pixelation, I could see my mother’s expression—tired but furious, like she was holding herself together with teeth and willpower.

Sloane’s voice crackled through cheap speakers: “Tell us what you see.”

My mother’s voice, strained: “A boy. Eight years old. Fishing. He’s alone. He’s crying.”

Sloane: “Where is he?”

My mother: “By the lake. By the blue house.”

My breath caught.

Ethan’s face went white. “That’s me,” he whispered.

The video continued.

Sloane: “Now find the door.”

My mother: “No.”

Sloane: “Claire.”

My mother: “No.”

Sloane: “If you don’t, we’ll find someone who will.”

The video cut out suddenly, replaced by a text file.

Renee’s hands clenched. “This is enough,” she murmured. “This is criminal.”

My father’s voice was rough. “Then we take it to the sheriff.”

Ethan’s jaw tightened. “And if the sheriff is bought?”

Renee’s gaze was calm but hard. “Then we take it to the state attorney general. Media. Whoever will listen.”

I stared at the laptop, dizzy with rage and grief.

The footage wasn’t just proof.

It was a wound.

Because my mother had been fighting, and I’d never known.

I’d spent years thinking she’d just… faded away after her gift consumed her.

But now I saw the truth.

She’d been pushed.

Cornered.

And she’d died with her hands still reaching toward me.

My throat tightened. “We need Dylan here,” I whispered suddenly.

Everyone turned to me.

Ethan blinked. “What?”

“If Aurora knows about me,” I said, voice shaking, “and they knew about my mom—then they’ll look at Dylan next. They’ll use him if they can. We can’t leave him anywhere alone.”

My father nodded grimly. “I’ll go get him,” he said immediately.

Ethan stood. “I’ll go with you.”

My father’s gaze flicked over him, assessing. Then he nodded once—agreement between men who didn’t have time for pride.

“Renee,” my father said, “stay with Margaret.”

Renee nodded. “And lock the doors,” she added. “No hero moves.”

Ethan grabbed his keys. Before he followed my father out, he paused beside me.

His voice dropped, softer. “You did good,” he said, and there was no pity in it. Just truth.

I swallowed hard. “I don’t feel good.”

“I know,” he said. “But you’re not alone.”

His hand brushed mine—light, careful.

And for a second, under all the fear, warmth flickered in my chest like a small flame refusing to die.

Then he was gone.

And the house felt too quiet again.

27

Renee made me sit.

“You’re running on adrenaline,” she said, pressing a glass of water into my hands. “Drink.”

I drank, but it didn’t stop my hands from trembling.

Upstairs, Margaret slept. Her breathing was steady, but her words kept echoing in my head:

Close the lake.

I stared out the window at the water.

It looked harmless.

Beautiful, even.

But I’d seen it in visions as something else—a hinge, a door, a place where storms loosen reality.

“Renee,” I whispered, “what if this is bigger than evidence? What if Aurora… isn’t just paperwork and labs?”

Renee’s expression softened slightly. “Honey, everything looks supernatural when people act like monsters,” she said. “But monsters are still human.”

I wanted to believe that.

But then the doorbell rang.

My body went cold.

Renee’s eyes snapped toward the sound. She held up a finger—wait—then moved quietly to the front window, peering through the curtain.

Her face tightened.

“There’s a man,” she whispered. “Suit. Nice car. Not local.”

My heart slammed. “Aurora.”

Renee shook her head. “Could be a realtor. Could be a salesman. But—”

The bell rang again.

Then a knock.

Polite. Controlled.

Like whoever stood outside wasn’t worried about being told no.

Renee stepped back from the window and pulled her phone from her pocket. “I’m calling Hargrove,” she said quietly. “Now.”

The knock came again.

Then a voice, muffled through the door.

“Ms. Meyers?”

My blood turned to ice.

Because he knew my name.

Renee mouthed, Upstairs?

I shook my head. If I ran, he’d know.

I forced myself forward, heart hammering.

Renee grabbed my wrist. “Elena—don’t open it.”

I swallowed hard. “If it’s Sloane,” I whispered, “I want to see his face.”

Renee’s eyes narrowed. “You’re brave.”

“No,” I whispered. “I’m angry.”

I stepped to the door.

And before Renee could stop me, I opened it—just a crack, chain still latched.

A man stood on the porch in a tailored suit, hair neatly combed, smile practiced. He looked like he belonged in a boardroom, not on a lakehouse porch.

His eyes slid over me with calm interest.

“Ms. Elena Meyers,” he said smoothly. “I’m Dr. Adrian Sloane.”

My stomach dropped.

He smiled wider, like he enjoyed the way my face changed.

“I believe,” he continued, voice warm as honey, “we have a lot to discuss.”

28

For a heartbeat, I couldn’t move.

All I could see was my mother in that grainy video—furious, trapped, refusing.

All I could hear was Sloane’s contempt: You’ll try to save everyone.

Renee stepped into view beside me, phone in hand. “You’re trespassing,” she said sharply. “Leave.”

Sloane’s smile didn’t falter. His gaze flicked to Renee like she was an inconvenience. “And you are?”

“A nurse,” Renee snapped. “Which means I know how to document harassment. Walk away.”

Sloane chuckled softly. “We’re not here to harass anyone,” he said. “We’re here to offer… assistance.”

My hands clenched. “Assistance,” I repeated, voice shaking.

Sloane’s gaze returned to me, steady and invasive. “Margaret Reynolds is a unique patient,” he said. “Her case requires specialized resources. Your involvement has demonstrated… remarkable results.”

“You mean my involvement demonstrated your experiment still works,” I said, and my voice surprised me—it came out sharp, almost fearless.

Sloane’s eyes glittered. “A harsh interpretation,” he murmured. “But not entirely incorrect.”

Renee swore. “Get off this property.”

Sloane held up his hands, placating. “Ms. Meyers, you have a child,” he said gently, as if we were friends. “You have a career. A life. What you’re stepping into—what you’ve inherited—is far heavier than you realize.”

My throat tightened. “Don’t pretend you care about me.”

Sloane’s smile softened into something almost pitying. “I care about the phenomenon,” he admitted smoothly. “And about what it could do for people trapped in darkness.”

I felt my rage sharpen. “My mother wasn’t darkness,” I hissed. “She was a person.”

Sloane’s eyes flickered—just a flash—then returned to calm. “Your mother was a pioneer,” he said. “And she made choices.”

“She made choices under coercion,” Renee snapped.

Sloane ignored her. “Elena,” he said, voice lower, more intimate, “Aurora isn’t your enemy. It’s your inheritance. Your purpose.”

My stomach churned. “My purpose is raising my son,” I said flatly. “Not being your lab rat.”

Sloane sighed, like I was disappointing him. “I hoped you’d be more… curious,” he murmured.

Then he leaned closer to the chain-latched crack of the door, voice dropping.

“We know Dylan is with your father,” he said softly. “In St. Paul.”

My blood turned to ice.

Renee’s hand tightened on her phone. “Elena—”

Sloane’s gaze held mine, calm and terrifying. “You see?” he murmured. “This isn’t a threat. It’s a reminder. We can watch from far away. Imagine what we can do up close.”

My whole body went rigid.

He smiled again, polite as a banker.

“I’ll return tomorrow,” he said. “With documents. With options. Because whether you cooperate or not, Elena—Margaret’s condition will be classified as a specialized neurological event.”

He paused, eyes sharp.

“And when the state sees that classification, they will intervene. That’s how systems work.”

My voice came out like a rasp. “Get off my porch.”

Sloane nodded slightly, like he’d expected the anger.

“Tomorrow,” he repeated.

Then he stepped back, turned, and walked down the porch steps like he owned the world.

His car door shut softly.

The engine purred.

And as he drove away, my knees nearly gave out.

Renee caught my arm. “Okay,” she said, voice urgent. “We’re done being polite. We call the sheriff right now.”

I swallowed hard, shaking. “He knows where Dylan is.”

Renee’s eyes hardened. “Then we bring Dylan here and we lock this place down.”

I nodded, throat tight.

But deep down, another fear curled cold inside me:

If Sloane could find Dylan with distance…

What would he do once he was close?

29

Renee locked the deadbolt, slid the chain back on, then walked through the house like she was checking a crime scene—windows, back door, porch light, blinds.

“Sheriff,” she said, already dialing. “Now.”

My hands were still shaking. My throat still felt tight from the way Sloane said Dylan’s name like it was a chess piece.

I heard the call connect, and Renee’s voice snapped into that calm, professional tone people use when they’re trying not to panic.

“This is Renee Whitaker,” she said. “Registered nurse. I’m at a residence on Lakeside Drive near Silver Pines Lake. We have reason to believe a patient is being targeted for an unlawful transfer and that a private party is harassing and threatening the family—”

I didn’t hear the rest.

Because my mind kept replaying Sloane’s smile.

We know Dylan is with your father.

If Aurora could track Dylan from a distance, then nowhere felt safe.

I pressed my palms to my cheeks, trying to ground myself—trying to keep my mother’s memories from flooding in again. The red scarf lay on the kitchen table like a sleeping animal, waiting for my skin.

Upstairs, Margaret slept under monitors that beeped softly like a heartbeat on a loop.

And outside, Silver Pines Lake sat still, beautiful, pretending it wasn’t a door.

30

The sheriff arrived in under twenty minutes.

That alone made my stomach twist.

Small-town law enforcement usually didn’t move that fast unless something was already on their radar.

A squad SUV rolled into the driveway, lights off, quiet. Two people got out—one tall man in uniform and one woman with a heavier coat and a steadier walk, her hand resting on her belt like it belonged there.

She approached first.

“Sheriff Marisol Vega,” she said, showing her badge quickly. Her voice was controlled, not unfriendly but not warm either. The kind of tone that said: Tell me the truth, because I will find it anyway.

Renee opened the door just enough to speak without giving the porch the satisfaction of our fear.

“Thank you for coming,” Renee said. “We need to keep this contained. There’s a medically fragile patient upstairs.”

Sheriff Vega’s eyes flicked over us, cataloging details—my pale face, Renee’s phone still in her hand, the tension in every corner of the house.

“What’s the situation?” she asked.

Renee stepped aside and let her in.

The second Vega crossed the threshold, she paused and looked at the lake through the window.

“Pretty out here,” she murmured, then turned back to us. “Now tell me why you called.”

Ethan and my father weren’t back yet. It was just me, Renee, and a sheriff who looked like she’d heard every lie in three counties.

I forced my voice steady. “A doctor named Adrian Sloane came to the door,” I said. “He knew my name. He knew where my son is. He implied—he implied he can influence the system to take a patient.”

Vega’s gaze sharpened. “Dr. Sloane, you said.”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Where is your son?” she asked.

“With my father in St. Paul. But we’re bringing him here.”

Vega gave a slow nod, then looked at Renee. “Threats against a child?”

“Implied,” Renee said. “But the intent was clear.”

Vega’s partner—Deputy Nolan—shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe he’s just—”

Vega cut him off with a glance. “Maybe nothing. We document what we know.”

She turned back to me. “You have evidence?”

My father’s box flashed in my mind.

“Yes,” I said quickly. “We have recordings. Documents. A flash drive. It connects Sloane to something called Aurora.”

Vega’s expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes tightened—recognition.

“Aurora,” she repeated, and her voice got quieter. “Where did you hear that name?”

My stomach dropped. “You’ve heard it?”

Vega held my gaze. “I asked first.”

Renee answered for me. “Hospital files. Witness statements. Private research protocol.”

Vega’s mouth went flat. “Okay,” she said. “Show me.”

31

We sat at Ethan’s laptop like it was a confession booth.

Renee pulled up the folders. The labels. The video file.

Sheriff Vega leaned in slightly as the grainy footage played—my mother in a chair, Dr. Sloane standing over her like he was training a dog.

When Sloane’s voice crackled through the speakers—Tell us what you see—Vega’s face didn’t flinch.

But her hands tightened slowly into fists.

When my mother said, strained, A boy… fishing… he’s crying, Deputy Nolan sucked in a breath.

“That’s…” he started.

Ethan’s voice came from the doorway behind us, sharp and steady. “That’s me.”

I whipped around.

Ethan stood there with my father and Dylan.

Dylan clutched his backpack like it was armor. His eyes were wide, scanning the strangers, the tension, the police.

“Mom?” he whispered. “What’s going on?”

My chest cracked open. I crossed the room in two steps and dropped to my knees in front of him, gripping his shoulders gently.

“Hey,” I said, forcing softness into my voice. “You’re safe. Okay? You’re safe.”

Dylan’s eyes flicked to the sheriff. “Are we in trouble?”

“No,” I whispered. “We’re— we’re getting help.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he nodded because he trusted me.

Ethan stepped past us and leaned over the laptop again, jaw tight, watching as Sloane pressed my mother.

If you don’t, we’ll find someone who will.

Sheriff Vega’s voice went cold. “Pause it.”

Renee paused the video.

Vega leaned back slowly, eyes fixed on the frozen frame of Sloane’s calm face.

“I know that man,” she said.

My stomach dropped. “You do?”

Vega exhaled through her nose. “Not personally. But his name has floated through complaints for years. Families with loved ones in coma cases. Transfers. ‘Specialized facilities.’ People sign paperwork they don’t understand because they’re desperate.”

Ethan’s voice shook with anger. “So you’ve heard of Aurora.”

Vega’s gaze shifted to him, steady. “I’ve heard whispers.”

My father’s jaw tightened. “Then why is he still walking around free?”

Vega’s expression sharpened. “Because whispers don’t convict. Evidence does.”

She pointed at the laptop. “This is evidence.”

Then she looked at me. “Ms. Meyers, you said he came here. Today.”

“Yes.”

“What exactly did he say?”

I swallowed hard and told her—everything, including Dylan’s name.

Vega listened without interrupting. When I finished, she nodded once.

“Okay,” she said. “Here’s what happens next. We open a formal report. We document harassment, coercion, and threats. We secure copies of this evidence and we hand it to state investigators.”

Ethan leaned forward. “And my mom? Because they’ll try to take her.”

Vega’s eyes flicked toward the staircase. “You said she’s medically fragile. Is she stable?”

Renee nodded. “Stable. Not in immediate danger.”

Vega considered that. Then she said, “Then we don’t move her tonight unless we have to. We hold position. If Sloane comes back tomorrow, we document. And if he trespasses again, I arrest him.”

My heart jumped. “You can arrest him?”

“For trespass and harassment,” Vega said. “And if he threatens a child again, we escalate.”

Ethan’s hands clenched. “That’s not enough.”

Vega met his gaze. “It’s a start.”

I hated how calm she was, but some part of me needed it—needed someone whose job was reality.

Then Dylan tugged my sleeve.

“Mom,” he whispered, eyes darting toward the stairs. “Who’s upstairs?”

I swallowed, smoothing his hair. “Someone who needs help.”

Dylan’s gaze sharpened, small and serious. “Like when I had my surgery?”

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Like that.”

He nodded slowly, then whispered, “I can help too.”

My throat tightened. “Just by staying close to me,” I said. “That’s helping.”

He took my hand like it was the most important job in the world.

32

That night, nobody slept much.

Renee stayed in a chair outside Margaret’s room, monitor glow washing her face pale. Sheriff Vega left Deputy Nolan parked down the road in the squad SUV, “just in case.”

Ethan walked through the house like a guard dog, checking locks twice, then three times.

My father sat at the kitchen table with his leather tools laid out—not because he needed to craft anything, but because his hands needed something to do. He cut thin strips, braided them, unbraided them, like he was weaving worry into a shape he could control.

Dylan curled up on the couch with a blanket, trying hard to be brave.

I sat beside him, watching the lake through the window.

Around midnight, wind picked up. Tree branches tapped the glass. The sky turned bruised, clouds stacking low.

A storm was coming.

My stomach knotted.

Because Margaret had said storms loosen the hinge.

Because my mother had fought Aurora in storms.

Because Sloane had smiled like tomorrow was inevitable.

I felt the red scarf calling from the table, humming under my skin.

I didn’t touch it.

I couldn’t afford to fall into another vision while my son slept beside me.

But as I stared at the water, my fingers went numb with that familiar, impossible pull.

A flash hit me anyway—no touch, no trigger.

Just… a crack.

Dylan, running on the dock.

A splash.

A red scarf floating like blood on water.

My breath caught in my throat.

I jolted upright, heart slamming.

Dylan stirred. “Mom?”

I forced myself to breathe, to smile. “Bad dream,” I whispered.

But my hands were shaking too hard to hide it.

Because it didn’t feel like a dream.

It felt like a warning.

33

At 6:14 a.m., Olivia texted Renee.

Renee’s phone buzzed, and she startled awake, blinking hard.

She read the message, then swore softly.

“What?” Ethan demanded, already on his feet.

Renee held up the phone. “Olivia,” she said. “The nurse. She says she has more.”

My pulse jumped.

Renee read aloud: “They’re mobilizing. Not tomorrow. Today. Sloane has transport. They’re saying ‘state order.’ It’s fake but it’ll look real. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Sheriff Vega had come back at dawn, coffee in hand. She listened, expression hardening.

“They’re moving early,” Ethan said, voice tight.

Vega nodded. “Then we move first.”

Ethan blinked. “You just said don’t move her.”

“I said don’t move her unless we have to,” Vega corrected. “This is ‘have to.’”

My father stood up slowly. “Where would we go?”

Vega’s gaze sharpened. “Not far,” she said. “Somewhere with cameras and witnesses. Somewhere public enough Aurora can’t drag a coma patient out without someone filming it.”

Ethan’s jaw clenched. “The clinic in town?”

Vega nodded. “Silver Pines Family Medicine. Dr. Rausch. He’s clean. He’ll document her condition and verify she’s under family care. If Aurora shows up with fake paperwork, they won’t get traction without a medical handoff.”

Renee exhaled. “We can transport her carefully,” she said. “But we need time.”

“Then we make time,” Ethan said, eyes blazing.

Dylan sat up on the couch, rubbing his eyes. “Are we going somewhere?”

I crouched in front of him. “Yeah,” I said gently. “A quick trip. We need to keep Grandma Maggie safe.”

Dylan’s eyes widened. “She’s my grandma now?”

The word hit me in the chest—soft, innocent, deadly sincere.

I swallowed. “If you want her to be.”

Dylan nodded firmly. “Then we keep her safe.”

My heart tightened. “Yes,” I whispered. “We do.”

34

Moving Margaret felt like carrying a sleeping storm.

Renee and Ethan lifted her carefully onto a stretcher they’d rented through a private medical service. My father held the oxygen tank steady. Sheriff Vega walked ahead, clearing the path like a shield.

Margaret’s eyelids fluttered once as we moved her, but she didn’t wake.

Still, as we rolled her through the hallway, I felt it—her presence humming under the surface, like she was listening.

Like she knew the lake was shifting.

We loaded her into Ethan’s SUV. Renee rode with her in back, monitoring vitals. My father drove my car with Dylan and me, staying close behind.

Sheriff Vega’s squad SUV led the way toward town.

Silver Pines was the kind of place with one main street, two diners, and more pickup trucks than sedans. People stared as our little convoy rolled through.

Good.

Witnesses.

We pulled into the clinic parking lot just as the first fat drops of rain began to fall.

Dr. Rausch met us at the door—a man in his sixties with kind eyes and a no-nonsense posture, wearing a flannel under his white coat like he’d been born in Minnesota winters.

“Marisol,” he said to the sheriff, then looked at Margaret. “That’s the woman.”

Vega nodded. “We need documentation. Now.”

Rausch didn’t ask questions. He just moved, brisk and competent, helping us wheel Margaret into an exam room.

As Renee explained Margaret’s condition, Rausch examined her and dictated notes into a recorder with steady precision.

“Patient stable,” he said. “No evidence of acute distress. Transfer attempts without family consent would be medically inappropriate.”

Ethan’s shoulders dropped a fraction, like a man who’d been holding his breath for weeks.

Then the clinic door chimed.

A gust of rain blew in.

And with it, Dr. Adrian Sloane.

35

He walked in like he belonged there.

Suit dry despite the rain, hair perfect, calm smile in place. Two men followed him—tall, broad, wearing matching coats that screamed “security” without saying the word.

Sloane’s eyes swept the waiting room, then landed on me.

His smile widened like we were old friends.

“Ms. Meyers,” he said warmly. “I told you I’d return.”

Sheriff Vega stepped in front of him immediately. “You’re not welcome here,” she said flatly.

Sloane’s gaze slid to her, polite. “Sheriff Vega,” he said, and the fact that he knew her name made my skin crawl. “I’m not here to cause trouble.”

Vega’s hand rested on her belt. “You’re here to harass. And you’re trespassing.”

Sloane held up a folder. “I’m here with legal documentation,” he said smoothly. “Emergency medical directive. Specialized neurological care. State oversight.”

Ethan stepped forward, voice shaking with fury. “That’s fake.”

Sloane’s smile didn’t falter. “Mr. Reynolds,” he said gently. “I understand you’re emotional. But your mother’s condition has been classified—”

“By who?” Ethan snapped. “You?”

Sloane’s eyes glittered. “By professionals,” he said. “And the state has resources you do not. This is not personal. It’s care.”

Renee appeared in the hallway behind Ethan, eyes hard. “You can’t move her,” she said. “Her attending physician approved home care.”

Sloane’s gaze flicked to Renee like she was an insect. “Home care is inadequate for this level of neurological complexity,” he said.

Dr. Rausch stepped into the hall, recorder still in hand. “And who are you, exactly?” he asked sharply.

Sloane turned, smile polished. “Dr. Adrian Sloane. Neurology.”

Rausch’s eyes narrowed. “Not around here.”

“I’m affiliated with state-level programs,” Sloane said smoothly.

Rausch’s jaw tightened. “Then you can file your request properly like everyone else.”

Sloane’s smile thinned. “We don’t have time for red tape,” he murmured.

Then his gaze slid back to me—soft, almost kind.

“Elena,” he said quietly, dropping the doctor voice and using my first name like it belonged in his mouth. “This can all be easy. Cooperate, and everyone stays safe.”

My blood froze.

Sheriff Vega’s voice went lethal. “Did you just threaten her?”

Sloane blinked, performing innocence. “No,” he said. “I offered reassurance.”

Vega stepped closer. “You’re done,” she snapped. “Leave. Now.”

Sloane sighed like she was being unreasonable. “Sheriff,” he said, “you’re standing in the way of state medicine.”

Vega’s hand moved to her radio. “Deputy Nolan,” she said into it, voice sharp, “get in here. Now.”

Sloane’s eyes flicked toward the door—calculating.

Then, calmly, he opened his folder and slid a paper toward Vega.

“Read it,” he said.

Vega glanced down.

Her face didn’t change, but her shoulders tightened.

Ethan leaned in. “What is it?”

Vega’s voice went tight. “It’s… a judge’s signature.”

My stomach dropped.

“No,” Ethan said, voice cracking. “No, that’s—”

Renee snatched the paper and scanned it. “This is copied,” she hissed. “The seal—look. It’s printed.”

Rausch grabbed it, eyes narrowing. “This is not valid.”

Sloane’s smile returned. “Then call the courthouse,” he suggested softly. “While you waste time, my team ensures a patient receives appropriate care.”

The two men behind him shifted subtly—ready.

My heart hammered.

Dylan stood near the waiting-room chairs, clutching his backpack, eyes wide with fear.

And then Sloane’s gaze flicked down to him.

Just a quick glance.

But it landed like a hand around my throat.

“Dylan,” Sloane said pleasantly.

Dylan flinched.

I moved without thinking, stepping between them.

“Don’t,” I said, voice shaking.

Sloane’s smile widened, satisfied. “See?” he murmured. “We can all be civilized.”

Sheriff Vega’s voice snapped. “That’s it. You are under arrest for trespass and harassment.”

Sloane’s eyes widened slightly—just enough to perform surprise. “Sheriff, you can’t—”

Vega stepped forward. “Try me.”

Deputy Nolan burst through the door, hand on his holster.

For a second, the whole room held its breath.

Sloane looked between the officers, then back at me.

And his smile vanished.

Not replaced by anger.

By something colder.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “Arrest me.”

Vega blinked, thrown off.

Sloane lifted his hands as if surrendering, calm as a man stepping into a planned photo.

But as Vega moved to cuff him, one of the security men slipped his hand into his coat.

Renee shouted, “Gun!”

Everything exploded.

36

Deputy Nolan drew his weapon. Sheriff Vega shoved Sloane backward, hard, and the waiting room erupted in screams as people ducked behind chairs.

The security man didn’t pull a gun.

He pulled a Taser.

He fired.

The barbs hit Vega’s shoulder.

Her body jerked violently and she went down hard, teeth clenched as electricity locked her muscles.

My blood turned to ice.

“Marisol!” Nolan shouted.

Sloane stepped back, smooth as a man watching a demonstration.

“Enough,” he said calmly, like the room was a classroom.

Nolan aimed at the security man. “Drop it!”

The man hesitated.

And in that split-second, Sloane looked at his other guard and nodded once.

The second guard moved—fast, brutal.

He lunged past Nolan, heading for the hallway where Margaret’s room was.

Ethan ran after him, rage exploding into motion.

Renee sprinted too.

I grabbed Dylan’s hand so hard he yelped.

“Stay with me,” I gasped.

Dylan’s eyes were huge. “Mom—”

“Stay,” I repeated, voice cracking. “Do not let go.”

In the chaos, Sloane turned back to me, face calm, eyes bright with possession.

“This is what happens,” he said softly, “when you make it hard.”

Then he moved—toward Dylan.

My body reacted before my brain did.

I shoved Dylan behind me and swung my bag hard.

The strap hit Sloane across the face.

He stumbled back, shock flashing for the first time.

And my skin grazed his wrist.

Just a brush.

Just enough.

The world cracked open.

37

I fell into Sloane.

Not his memories exactly—

His hunger.

A thousand hours of watching people break. Clipboards. Cameras. Storms staged like rituals. The lake like a mouth.

And beneath it all, one repeating image:

A door of water opening in a storm, and behind it a glow—bright, intoxicating—like knowledge itself.

Sloane’s voice, inside my head, layered over itself: It’s not magic. It’s a mechanism. It’s a map. It’s a way to see what’s hidden—what’s coming—what’s inevitable.

Then I saw something that made my stomach drop.

Dylan.

Not drowning—standing on the dock at night, eyes blank, holding the red scarf like it belonged to him.

Sloane’s hand on Dylan’s shoulder.

My throat closed.

I ripped myself out of the vision with a gasp.

Sloane stared at me now, face twisted—not with pain, but with delight.

“You can see me,” he whispered. “Finally.”

My hands shook. “You’re sick,” I rasped.

Sloane’s smile was gone, replaced by raw ambition. “I’m right,” he corrected. “And you’re the proof.”

Behind him, the clinic was chaos—Nolan shouting for backup, Vega groaning as she fought the Taser’s aftershock, people crying.

In the hallway, Ethan’s voice roared, “Get away from her!”

Renee screamed something I couldn’t hear.

Sloane leaned close enough that only I could hear him.

“The lake opens tonight,” he whispered. “The storm is already coming. You felt it. Margaret felt it. Your mother knew it.”

My stomach turned. “You killed her,” I whispered.

Sloane’s eyes flickered—almost amused. “Claire killed herself trying to stop the inevitable,” he murmured. “But she left you. A beautiful, perfect continuation.”

I wanted to hit him again.

But Dylan’s fingers were trembling in my grip.

I forced myself to breathe.

To think.

Then I did the only thing I could.

I looked Sloane dead in the eye and said, “You’re not getting him.”

Sloane smiled slowly. “Then you’ll open the door yourself,” he whispered.

And he stepped back into the crowd as if disappearing was easy.

One second he was there.

The next, he was gone.

38

We got Margaret out.

Not gracefully.

Not quietly.

But we got her out.

Deputy Nolan, shaky but determined, called in state troopers. Sheriff Vega, furious and shaking, ordered every unit within range. Dr. Rausch locked down the clinic and gave statements on camera to anyone who’d listen.

But Sloane was already slipping through fingers.

He left behind one guard in cuffs and another vanishing into the rain.

And before Sheriff Vega was even back on her feet, Renee grabbed my arm.

“Elena,” she hissed, eyes wild. “He said the lake opens tonight.”

I swallowed hard. “I know.”

Ethan’s face was pale with rage. “We go back to the house,” he said. “We lock down. We keep Mom safe.”

Renee’s gaze sharpened. “That’s not enough,” she said. “If Sloane believes the lake is a door, he’s going there. Not the house.”

My father’s face went grim. “To the dock,” he murmured.

My stomach twisted.

I remembered the flash I’d had last night—Dylan running. A splash. The scarf floating.

It wasn’t random.

It was a warning.

I looked at Dylan, who was silent now, face tight, trying to be brave and failing.

“We’re leaving the lake,” I said suddenly. “All of us.”

Ethan snapped toward me. “What?”

“We go somewhere public,” I insisted. “Somewhere far. Hotel. Police station. Anywhere—”

Renee shook her head. “And if Sloane has already planted people? And if Margaret is the anchor?” She pointed at the window, where wind bent trees sideways. “Storm’s rolling in. He thinks tonight is the hinge.”

My father’s voice went rough. “Then maybe… maybe you have to close it.”

My throat tightened. “How?”

My father stared at me like it hurt. “Your mother wrote about it,” he whispered. “The lake opens with storms. Maybe it closes with… you.”

I felt nausea rise.

Because closing it might mean using the gift in a way I’d never used it before.

Not to see.

Not to help someone remember.

But to shut a door—maybe forever.

Ethan’s voice cracked. “Elena, you don’t have to—”

“Yes,” I whispered, surprising myself with the certainty. “I do.”

Because if I didn’t, Dylan would always be a target.

Because if Aurora could use my gift, they’d use my son next.

Because my mother had died trying to stop this, and Margaret had nearly died trying to protect me.

I looked at Dylan. “Hey,” I said, voice soft. “I need you to be really brave for me, okay?”

His eyes filled with tears he refused to let fall. “Okay,” he whispered.

I turned to Sheriff Vega, who was bruised but standing tall again. “Sheriff,” I said, voice shaking, “Sloane is going to the lake. Tonight. He thinks he can force something open.”

Vega’s gaze sharpened. “You’re telling me he’s going to commit a crime at the lake.”

“Yes,” I said. “And I think he’ll bring people.”

Vega nodded once. “Then we meet him there,” she said.

Ethan’s face tightened. “No,” he said. “Not with my mom exposed.”

Vega’s eyes met his. “If you think he won’t come anyway, you’re lying to yourself.”

Ethan went still.

And then, slowly, he nodded.

“Okay,” he said, voice low. “We meet him.”

39

Back at the lake house, the storm arrived like an army.

Thunder rolled across the water. Wind tore at the trees. Rain hit the roof in sheets so loud it drowned out normal conversation.

Renee kept Margaret stable in her room, curtains drawn. My father paced with a flashlight and his leather strap—thick, braided, strong—like he could tie the world down if he found the right knot.

Sheriff Vega had deputies posted in two unmarked cars down the road. State troopers were “en route,” which meant nothing when you needed them now.

Ethan stood at the window watching the dock, jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack.

Dylan sat at the kitchen table with his hands flat on the wood, staring at the red scarf like it was a monster.

“I don’t like it,” he whispered.

“I know,” I said, sitting beside him. “I don’t either.”

He swallowed hard. “Is that man coming back?”

I hesitated.

Then I chose truth—because lies would only make him feel alone in the fear.

“Yes,” I whispered. “But we’re ready.”

Dylan’s voice shook. “Are you gonna… do your thing?”

I blinked. “My thing?”

He nodded, eyes wide. “When you touch people and know stuff.”

My throat tightened. He’d noticed more than I thought.

“Yes,” I whispered. “But I need you to help me stay here. With you.”

“How?” he asked, voice small.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small Lego piece he’d given me once—a tiny blue tile.

“This,” I said. “You made me keep it for luck.”

Dylan blinked, surprised. “You still have that?”

“Always,” I whispered. “If I start to… drift, I want you to put this in my hand. Okay?”

He nodded hard. “Okay.”

Upstairs, Margaret suddenly screamed.

A sharp, terrified sound that sliced through thunder like a blade.

Ethan bolted for the stairs. Renee’s voice snapped, “Hold her—don’t let her fall!”

I ran too, heart slamming.

Margaret was sitting upright in bed, eyes wide, hair wild around her face. She looked older in that moment—raw fear stripping away every polite layer.

“He’s here,” she rasped.

Ethan froze. “Mom?”

Margaret’s gaze locked on me. “Elena,” she whispered, voice shaking. “The lake is opening.”

Renee tried to calm her. “Margaret, you’re safe. Breathe.”

Margaret shook her head violently. “No,” she rasped. “You don’t understand. It’s not just water. It’s—”

Her eyes rolled back slightly. She pressed a hand to her chest. “It’s pulling.”

Then, with a sudden clarity that made my skin prickle, she whispered, “Claire taught you wrong. She told you to bury it. But you can’t bury a door.”

My throat tightened. “Margaret—how do I close it?”

Margaret’s eyes filled with tears. “You anchor it,” she whispered. “With love. Not fear.”

Then she grabbed my wrist with surprising strength.

Her skin met mine.

And the world shattered.

40

I fell into Margaret like a wave.

Not the soft memories of childhood and paint and Ethan’s laughter—

This was deeper.

This was the lake.

I stood in a storm so violent it felt alive. Water churned, black and shining, lightning ripping the sky apart. On the dock stood my mother—Claire—with the red scarf whipping around her neck like a flag.

Margaret stood beside her, paintbrush clenched like a weapon.

And across from them stood Sloane, younger but already smiling like he owned fate.

“You can’t stop it,” he told them, voice smooth. “You can only decide who controls it.”

Claire’s voice trembled with fury. “No one should.”

Sloane’s eyes glittered. “Then you waste it.”

Lightning struck the lake, and for a second the water didn’t just ripple—it opened.

Like a mouth.

Like a doorway into light.

And Claire—my mother—looked back over her shoulder.

Not at Margaret.

At me.

As if she could see through time.

“Elena,” she whispered.

My throat closed.

Her eyes softened with a grief so deep it almost knocked me down.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I tried to make you safe.”

Margaret’s voice cut in. “Claire, focus!”

Sloane stepped forward. “Bring her to the door,” he ordered. “Let her see.”

Claire shook her head, tears spilling. “Not my daughter.”

And then—God—then I saw it.

Claire yanked the scarf off her neck and shoved it into Margaret’s hands. “If I don’t make it,” she choked, “you find her. You keep him away from her. Promise me.”

Margaret’s face broke. “I promise.”

The storm roared.

And Claire did something I’d never understood as a child.

She didn’t run from the gift.

She aimed it.

She grabbed Sloane’s wrist.

And she pulled him into the door with her.

I felt it—felt her mind clamp onto his like a vice, dragging his hunger into the light, exposing him to the thing behind the lake.

Sloane screamed.

Not in pain.

In terror.

Because whatever lived behind that door didn’t belong to him.

The lake bucked like an animal.

Lightning struck again.

And Claire vanished.

The vision snapped.

I screamed as I tore back into the bedroom, sobbing, gasping, shaking so hard my teeth chattered.

Ethan caught me before I fell.

Margaret collapsed back onto the pillow, chest heaving.

Renee stared between us, horrified. “What did you do?”

My father stood in the doorway, eyes wet. “Claire,” he whispered.

I looked at him, tears streaming. “She tried to take Sloane with her,” I choked. “She tried to trap him behind the door.”

Ethan’s face went pale. “Then why is he still here?”

Margaret whispered, voice thin, “Because the lake didn’t stay closed.”

Thunder shook the house.

And down by the water, a bright white flash lit the dock like daylight.

Ethan’s head snapped toward the window.

“He’s there,” he whispered. “He’s at the dock.”

My blood turned to ice.

Sheriff Vega’s voice crackled over her radio downstairs—urgent, sharp. “Units, respond—movement at the dock—now!”

Margaret grabbed my wrist again, weak but insistent. “Elena,” she rasped. “It’s tonight. The hinge is loose. If he opens it, he’ll never stop.”

My throat tightened. “Then I close it,” I whispered.

My father stepped forward and pressed his braided leather strap into my hands. “Anchor,” he said hoarsely. “When you drift, feel this. Come back.”

Dylan appeared in the doorway behind him, eyes wide with fear and determination. He held the tiny blue Lego tile in his fist.

“I’m helping,” he said, voice shaking but firm.

My chest cracked open.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Stay close.”

Ethan’s voice was rough. “I’m coming.”

Renee snapped, “No—Margaret needs—”

Ethan cut her off. “My mom needs me alive. So I’m coming.”

Margaret whispered, almost smiling through exhaustion, “That’s my boy.”

We ran.

Out of the house.

Into the storm.

41

The rain hit like nails.

Wind shoved at us as we sprinted toward the dock, flashlights cutting thin lines through darkness. Sheriff Vega and Deputy Nolan were already down the slope, shouting into radios.

Two unmarked cars sat near the treeline, doors open, deputies crouched behind them.

And on the dock—

Sloane.

He stood at the end with two men beside him, one holding something that looked like a portable generator, cables snaking toward the water.

Lightning flashed, and for a split second I saw the setup clearly:

Not science.

Not medicine.

A ritual dressed in machinery.

Sloane turned as we approached, rain slicking his suit, hair finally disheveled. His eyes gleamed with excitement so intense it made my stomach turn.

“Perfect,” he called over the storm. “You came willingly.”

Sheriff Vega shouted, “Dr. Sloane! Step away from the water! You are under arrest!”

Sloane laughed—actually laughed—like laws were children’s games.

“You don’t understand what this is,” he shouted back. “This is bigger than your badge!”

Ethan yelled, “Leave my family alone!”

Sloane’s gaze snapped to Ethan, then to Dylan at my side.

He smiled.

My blood went cold.

“Hello, Dylan,” he called, voice warm as poison. “Your mother’s gift runs strong.”

Dylan squeezed my hand hard.

“No,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone. “No.”

Sloane lifted a hand, and one of his men shoved the generator’s throttle.

The machine roared.

Electric hum rose.

The lake surface trembled—no, not trembled—shifted, like skin reacting to a touch.

My breath caught.

Sloane spread his arms, face lifted to the storm like he was taking communion.

“Open,” he whispered.

Lightning struck the lake.

And the water split.

Not physically like a movie—

But spiritually, impossibly, like reality’s seam ripping.

A bright white glow rose from the surface.

And my mind—God—my mind tried to dive into it like it belonged there.

I stumbled.

My father grabbed my shoulder, shoving the leather strap into my palm. “Elena!” he roared. “Stay here!”

Dylan jammed the Lego tile into my other hand. “Mom!” he cried.

I clung to both, shaking, eyes watering as the glow pulled at me.

Sloane turned toward me, eyes wild. “Yes,” he breathed. “You feel it. That’s the door. That’s what your mother feared. That’s what she wasted.”

My voice came out like a sob. “She saved me.”

Sloane smiled. “She delayed you,” he corrected. “Now—touch the water.”

Deputies shouted. Vega advanced, weapon drawn. “Shut it down!”

Sloane’s men raised their hands—but not surrendering.

One reached into his coat.

Renee had been right.

No hero moves.

Everything was going to break.

So I did the only thing I could.

I stepped forward.

Ethan grabbed my arm. “Elena, no—”

“I have to,” I whispered. “Or he’ll use Dylan next.”

Ethan’s eyes filled with helpless fury. “Then I’m with you.”

We moved together onto the dock, rain lashing our faces. The glow from the water lit Sloane’s features from below, turning him almost inhuman.

He held out his hand to me like a gentleman offering a dance.

“Do it,” he whispered.

My stomach churned.

Then Margaret’s voice echoed in my head:

Anchor it with love. Not fear.

I looked at Dylan.

At my son, soaked and shaking, still standing.

Still holding on.

And love flooded me so hard it hurt.

I turned back to Sloane.

And I smiled—small, fierce.

“Okay,” I whispered. “I’ll open it.”

Sloane’s eyes lit up with triumph.

I stepped to the edge of the dock and lowered my hand—

Not to the water.

To Ethan’s.

I grabbed his hand and squeezed hard.

Then I reached back and grabbed Dylan’s hand too.

A chain.

Family.

Anchor.

Sloane blinked, confused. “What are you—”

“I’m not opening it for you,” I said, voice shaking but steady. “I’m closing it for us.”

And I thrust my free hand into the glow.

42

The lake swallowed my mind.

Memories hit me like a tidal wave.

Not just Margaret’s.

Not just my mother’s.

Hundreds.

Thousands.

People in hospital beds. People crying in hallways. People signing forms with shaking hands. People losing time, losing names, losing themselves.

Aurora had been feeding on them.

Using them.

And in the center of it all was Sloane’s hunger—an endless, gnawing need to know, to control, to predict, to own the future.

He wasn’t worshiping the door.

He was trying to become it.

I saw my mother again—Claire—standing in that bright space behind the water, her red scarf trailing like a comet. Her eyes met mine.

“You found it,” she whispered.

Tears burned my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I sobbed. “I didn’t know.”

She shook her head gently. “You lived,” she whispered. “That’s what mattered.”

Sloane’s voice echoed through the light like a knife: “Give it to me!”

I felt him trying to shove his way into the space—trying to climb into my mind like he owned it.

I clenched my hands around Ethan and Dylan, holding tight.

Anchor with love.

I thought of Dylan’s Lego cities, how he built worlds and believed they could be safe. I thought of Ethan sitting alone in that blue house, waiting for a mother who never came home. I thought of Margaret painting storms so she could breathe. I thought of my father carving leather because his hands needed purpose.

And I thought of my mother’s last act—dragging Sloane into the light to trap him.

She hadn’t wasted her gift.

She’d used it like a shield.

So I did the same.

I turned my mind toward Sloane and pushed.

Not with rage.

With clarity.

With a simple, undeniable truth:

You don’t get to take.

Sloane screamed—not aloud, but inside the space, his hunger cracking.

I saw him tumble backward in the light, flailing like a man suddenly weightless.

He clawed at the edge of the door.

At me.

At Dylan.

“No!” he shrieked. “This is mine!”

And behind him, the memories—the stolen ones—surged like a tide turning.

People’s names, faces, lives.

They pushed back.

They reclaimed.

Aurora’s “door” began to collapse—not violently, but inevitably, like a lie dissolving under truth.

My mother appeared beside me, her hand warm on my cheek.

“This will cost you,” she whispered.

I choked on a sob. “I don’t care.”

She shook her head. “You will,” she whispered. “But you’ll still choose it.”

I didn’t hesitate.

Because Dylan’s hand was in mine.

Because love isn’t free, but it’s worth everything.

“I choose it,” I whispered.

And I slammed the door shut.

43

I woke on the dock with rain hitting my face and Ethan’s voice shouting my name.

“Elena! Elena—stay with me!”

My eyes fluttered open.

The glow on the lake was gone.

Just dark water, churning under storm.

Sloane lay on the wet boards a few feet away, gasping like he’d been punched by something invisible. His suit was ruined, hair plastered to his forehead, his face twisted in shock and rage.

Deputies had his men in cuffs, weapons out, shouting into radios.

Sheriff Vega stood over Sloane with her gun trained, rain dripping off her hat brim.

“Dr. Adrian Sloane,” she shouted over thunder, “you’re under arrest for assault, unlawful restraint attempts, falsifying legal documents, and—”

Sloane’s eyes snapped to me, wild.

“You did it,” he rasped.

I tried to sit up, but my body felt… hollow.

Not weak exactly.

Just empty in a way I didn’t recognize.

Ethan helped me up, hands shaking.

Dylan threw himself into my arms, sobbing.

“You’re okay,” he cried. “Mom, you’re okay.”

I hugged him tight, burying my face in his wet hair.

“I’m here,” I whispered. “I’m here.”

But something inside me… wasn’t.

The hum under my skin was gone.

No buzzing. No pull.

No flicker of someone else’s memories waiting behind a touch.

Just silence.

My father reached us, breath heaving, eyes wet.

“Elena,” he whispered. “Did you—”

“I closed it,” I rasped.

He let out a sound that was half sob, half laugh, and pulled me and Dylan into his arms like he could fuse us together with sheer will.

Ethan stood beside us, soaked and shaking, staring at Sloane like he wanted to tear him apart with his bare hands.

Sloane laughed—a broken, furious sound.

“You think this ends it?” he coughed. “Aurora is bigger than me.”

Sheriff Vega slammed him facedown into the dock and cuffed him hard. “Then we’ll find the rest,” she snapped.

Thunder rolled again.

But the lake stayed dark.

Quiet.

Closed.

44

Margaret woke fully the next morning.

Not just eyes fluttering—awake.

Renee called us upstairs and I ran so fast my legs wobbled.

Margaret sat propped against pillows, hair brushed, eyes clear. Not confused. Not drifting.

Present.

Ethan froze in the doorway like his heart didn’t trust what it was seeing.

“Mom?” he whispered.

Margaret turned her head.

And her face softened in a way that made my throat tighten.

“There you are,” she said, voice rough with emotion. “My stormcatcher.”

Ethan made a sound like his whole body broke at once. He crossed the room in two strides and dropped beside the bed, gripping her hand like he’d never let go again.

“You remember,” he choked.

Margaret’s eyes filled. “I never stopped,” she whispered. “I was just… far.”

Ethan pressed his forehead to her hand and sobbed openly.

Margaret looked past him to me.

“Elena,” she said softly.

I stepped closer, heart pounding.

She reached out, fingers trembling, and touched my cheek like she was making sure I was real.

“You closed it,” she whispered.

I swallowed hard. “I think so.”

Margaret’s lips trembled into the faintest smile. “Your mother would be proud,” she said, and the words hit me like sunlight after years of cold.

Tears spilled down my face. “I hope so.”

Margaret’s gaze flicked to Dylan, who hovered behind me, clutching his backpack.

Dylan swallowed. “Hi,” he said shyly. “I’m Dylan.”

Margaret’s smile widened. “I know,” she said softly. “You’re the brave one.”

Dylan blinked. “I am?”

Margaret nodded once, eyes warm. “You held her here,” she whispered. “You anchored her.”

Dylan looked up at me, eyes wide with pride and relief.

And for the first time in days, my chest loosened enough to breathe.

45

The aftermath wasn’t clean.

It never is.

Sloane’s arrest made local news by noon—“Neurologist Arrested After Clinic Confrontation”—and by evening it was statewide. Sheriff Vega handed the flash drive evidence to state investigators. Dr. Rausch gave statements. Renee wrote documentation so detailed it might as well have been a weapon.

Olivia came forward too, trembling but determined, and her testimony cracked open hospital administration like a rotten shell. Karen Lindholm “took a leave of absence” that turned into handcuffs three weeks later when investigators traced Aurora’s money.

Dr. Hargrove, exhausted but vindicated, testified against the program and resigned from St. Paul Regional the day after—then took a job at a smaller hospital where he could sleep without feeling hunted.

Aurora didn’t disappear overnight.

But it bled.

Hard.

And the more it bled, the more people crawled out of the shadows with stories: loved ones moved without consent, “specialized care” that looked like isolation, paperwork that smelled like coercion.

A door is powerful.

But so is daylight.

46

Two months later, the first snow fell over Silver Pines Lake.

Soft and quiet, like the world was trying to heal without making a sound.

Margaret recovered steadily, strength returning, laughter slowly reappearing like color in a painting. She painted again, but not storms—at least not the same way. When she painted clouds now, she always painted a break in them too. A seam of light.

Ethan stayed close, not out of fear anymore but out of choice. He fixed the loose shutter, repainted the porch railing, patched the dock boards where the storm had tried to break us.

My father visited often, quiet but present, like he was learning how to live alongside my mother’s ghost instead of running from it.

And me?

I tried to touch nothing for a while.

Not because I was afraid of visions—

But because there weren’t any.

The gift was gone.

At first, the silence felt like a loss so sharp it hurt.

Then it began to feel like peace.

One night, after Dylan fell asleep on the couch with a comic book on his chest, I stood on the porch staring at the frozen lake.

Ethan stepped out beside me, hands in his pockets.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

I exhaled. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I feel… lighter. But also like I lost a piece of my mom.”

Ethan nodded slowly, staring at the lake. “You didn’t lose her,” he said. “You finished what she started.”

Tears stung my eyes. “Do you think she knew it would cost me?”

Ethan’s gaze softened. “Yeah,” he said. “And she still would’ve wanted it. Because she wanted you safe.”

I swallowed hard. “And now?”

Ethan’s shoulder brushed mine—small, steady contact. “Now,” he said gently, “you get to be here. In your own life. Not everyone else’s.”

I looked at him, and something in my chest warmed.

“Dylan loves it here,” I whispered.

Ethan’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. “He’s basically adopted the lake as his personal kingdom.”

I laughed softly.

Then Ethan turned toward me fully, eyes tired but clear.

“Elena,” he said, voice low, “I don’t want you to go back to St. Paul.”

My breath caught. “Ethan—”

“I know it’s complicated,” he said quickly. “And I know you didn’t come here to build a life. You came here to help my mom. But you did more than that.”

His voice shook, just slightly. “You brought my family back. You brought me back.”

Tears blurred my vision. “I didn’t do it alone,” I whispered.

“No,” he agreed. “But you stayed. And you didn’t have to.”

He hesitated, then said the thing that cracked me open.

“Stay,” he whispered. “You and Dylan. Stay with us.”

Behind us, the door creaked.

Margaret stood in the doorway in her robe, hair loose, holding a mug of tea. She looked between us with eyes that knew too much and judged nothing.

“We’re a family,” she said softly. “Not because of blood. Because we chose each other.”

My throat tightened.

Dylan’s sleepy voice drifted from the couch inside: “Mom? You coming?”

I turned, looking at my son—safe, warm, alive.

Then I looked back at Ethan. At Margaret. At the blue house by the lake.

And I realized something simple and startling:

Home isn’t where you started.

Home is where you’re held.

“I’ll stay,” I whispered.

Ethan’s breath shook as he smiled, relief and love flashing across his face like sunlight.

Margaret’s eyes glistened as she lifted her mug in a tiny toast. “Good,” she said softly. “Because I’m not letting my people scatter again.”

47

Spring came early.

The ice melted off the lake in silver sheets. Dylan ran along the shore with muddy boots and loud laughter. Margaret’s paintings sold again—small shows at first, then bigger ones. People called her work “haunting” and “hopeful” in the same breath.

One afternoon, Dylan brought home a school assignment titled: MY HERO.

I found it on the kitchen table, crayon letters spelling my name wrong in the sweetest way possible.

MY HERO IS MY MOM. SHE FOUND GRANDMA MAGGIE. SHE FOUGHT A BAD GUY DOCTOR. SHE IS BRAVE. ALSO SHE MAKES GOOD PANCAKES.

I laughed until I cried.

Ethan found me wiping my eyes and asked, “What’s wrong?”

I handed him the paper.

He read it, then looked at me like he was seeing something holy.

“You did that,” he murmured. “You gave him a story where the mom wins.”

I swallowed hard. “We all did,” I whispered.

That night, after Dylan was asleep, Ethan took me down to the dock.

The water was calm, reflecting stars like scattered glass.

He reached for my hand.

And for the first time since all of this started, when his skin met mine—

There was no flash.

No чуж memory.

No storm.

Just warmth.

Just him.

Just me.

“You feel okay?” he asked softly.

I nodded. “Yeah,” I whispered. “I do.”

Ethan exhaled, leaning his forehead against mine.

“Then we’re okay,” he whispered. “Finally.”

And behind us, inside the blue house by the lake, Margaret painted at her easel—brush strokes steady, light spilling across canvas.

Not a storm this time.

A sunrise.

THE END