Amara woke with a start, her body stiff and her heart pounding. For a moment, she didn't know where she was. The lamp still burned faintly on her desk, casting tired shadows across the walls. Her mouth was dry, her throat tight.
And then she remembered. The knocking. The shadow beneath the door.
Her eyes darted toward it. Nothing. Just pale light spilling in from the hallway. The air was heavy, but the shadow was gone.
She let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to her chest. Maybe it had been a trick of her imagination. Maybe exhaustion and fear had stitched a nightmare into her waking world.
But then she saw it.
A letter.
It lay just inside her door, the paper folded neatly, as though slipped through while she slept.
Her stomach twisted. She stared at it for long seconds before daring to move. Finally, with trembling fingers, she reached for it.
The envelope was plain no stamp, no address, just her name scrawled in dark ink. Not her grandmother's careful loops. This handwriting was sharper, more angular, as though carved instead of written.
She tore it open with clumsy urgency. Only one line stretched across the page.
Blood calls to blood. You are mine.
The paper slipped from her fingers. She backed away until her legs hit the bedframe, her breath ragged.
Not a dream. Not her imagination. Someone had been outside her room.
Her hands shook so badly she had to sit down. The words pulsed in her mind, heavier with every repetition. You are mine.
Her grandmother's warnings surged up again Jonas's child, Micah, claiming what Jonas had promised. Her chest constricted as the thought sank deeper. If Micah knew where she was, if he had already come this close, then nowhere was safe.
By the time morning light filled the window, she had made up her mind. She couldn't carry this alone.
She had to tell her mother.
The kitchen smelled of coffee and toasted bread. Sunlight poured through the window, softening the edges of the room, but it couldn't ease the tension curling in Amara's body.
Her mother stood by the counter, sipping from a chipped mug, her shoulders stiff. She looked tired, the skin beneath her eyes shadowed. When she turned at Amara's footsteps, her smile was too quick, too forced.
"You're up early," she said. "Did you sleep?"
Amara swallowed hard. "Not really."
Her mother studied her a moment longer, then gestured to the table. "Sit. Eat something."
But Amara didn't move. She gripped the folded letter in her hand so tightly the edges bit into her palm. "Mom," she said softly, "who is Micah?"
The mug froze halfway to her mother's lips. For a split second, the mask slipped her eyes widened, her face drained of color.
Then the mask returned, sharper this time. She set the mug down carefully, too carefully, and forced a laugh. "Where did you hear that name?"
"In the letters." Amara's voice cracked. She held up the envelope. "And now… here."
Her mother's gaze flicked to the paper in her hand, and her throat worked as if swallowing words she didn't want to speak.
"You shouldn't be reading those letters," she said at last, her voice clipped. "They're just… ramblings. Your grandmother wasn't well when she wrote them."
"That's not true." Amara's voice rose, louder than she meant. "She knew what she was saying. She wrote about Jonas. About the child she had with him. About Micah."
"Stop." Her mother's voice cracked like a whip, sharp and commanding. But her hands trembled where they gripped the edge of the counter.
Amara's chest ached. "You knew."
Silence.
Her mother looked down, her shoulders bowing as though under an invisible weight. When she spoke again, her voice was a whisper. "Some truths do more harm than good, Amara. That's why I told you to leave it alone. To leave him alone."
"But he's here," Amara said, her throat tight. "I saw someone in the woods. He was at my door last night. He slipped this under it." She shoved the letter onto the table, her hands shaking.
Her mother flinched when her eyes fell on the words. For a long moment, she just stared. Then she whispered, almost to herself, "He's found us."
Amara's blood turned cold. "So it's true? He's real?"
Her mother lifted her gaze, her eyes bright with fear. "Micah is more real than you want him to be. And if he's come for you, then we don't have much time."
Amara's pulse thundered. "Why me?"
Her mother's lips pressed into a thin line. She turned away, bracing herself against the counter. "Because you carry more of Jonas than you know."
The words landed like a blow. Amara staggered back, the room spinning. She wanted to demand answers, to scream, to deny it. But before she could, her mother crossed the kitchen in two strides and gripped her shoulders.
"Listen to me," she said fiercely. "You cannot let him in. No matter what he says, no matter how he looks at you do not let him in."
Tears stung Amara's eyes. "But what if it's already too late?"
Her mother's grip tightened, her eyes wild. "Then we run."
Before Amara could reply, a sharp sound echoed from outside. The crunch of gravel under footsteps. Both women froze, their eyes locking.
Slowly, Amara turned toward the window.
A figure stood at the edge of the driveway, half-hidden in shadow.
Watching.
Waiting.