Morning light spilled across the room in soft ribbons, wrapping the bed in gold. Mira stirred, blinking at the faint scent of vanilla and roasted nuts wafting through the air.
Her eyes fluttered open, nose twitching — familiar. Too familiar.
She turned toward Alden, still asleep beside her, his hair tousled and lips faintly parted. Leaning in, she sniffed — once, twice — then gasped dramatically.
Her hand shot for the nearest pillow.
"Alden!" Thud!
He jolted awake, half sitting, confusion still hanging in his sleepy face. "What— what did I do?"
She narrowed her eyes like a detective catching the culprit red-handed. "How dare you eat from my snack stash again?"
Alden blinked, rubbed his temple. "Snack stash? Mira, I—"
"Don't 'Mira' me!" she accused, pointing a finger at him like a courtroom prosecutor. "The smell of chocolate almonds. You think I wouldn't recognise it? Those were imported from Switzerland!"
He chuckled under his breath, still half-asleep. "You're unbelievable. You sniffed me like a bloodhound in my own bed."
"Correction," she said, flipping her hair dramatically. "A betrayed bloodhound."
Alden's lips curved into that familiar half-smile. "Fine," he said, throwing his hands up. "I confess, Your Honour. The evidence was too delicious."
She hit him with the pillow again — lighter this time — and laughed when he caught it midair. "You're impossible," she muttered, but the warmth in her voice lingered as she climbed out of bed.
Hours later, the morning humour had faded into quiet hums and the clinking of dishes. Mira moved through her chores with mechanical grace — wiping, folding, dusting — yet something inside her buzzed with unease. The air in the study felt heavier, charged.
A faint singe drifted near the bookshelf.
Her brow furrowed. She followed the smell to the corner of the desk — a small porcelain dish, ashes still warm. Kneeling, she ran her fingers through them. Black flakes smeared across her fingertips.
She whispered to the empty room, "What are you trying to hide from me, Alden… and why?"
Her heart thudded against her ribs as she rose and reached for her phone. The name Ozan echoed in her mind — the one Cüneyt had whispered.
Her hands trembled as she typed it into the search bar.
Ozan Aydın – Case File.
A headline popped up: "Young man found dead in his home. Suspect: Foster sibling, Seyran Aydın. The accused remains silent in all hearings. Currently institutionalised."
Her breath hitched.
The image attached to the article — a lone tree standing before a mist-covered house — froze her blood. It was the tree from her dreams.
"Cold… fog… blood…" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Hours blurred. Her hand moved on its own across the sketch pad. Charcoal scraped, page after page filled with the same tree — tall, lifeless, branches twisting like veins against the sky.
When her hand finally stilled, she had no memory of sitting down.
Alden found her there — asleep on the couch, hair spilling over her face, charcoal smudged across her fingers and cheek. The sketch pad lay open beside her, page after page of the same haunting image.
He crouched beside her, the softness in his eyes darkened by something unreadable. His fingers brushed her cheek, then clenched into a fist.
He picked up the sketch pad — the edges stained black.
The smile he gave was small, almost tender, but his jaw tightened as he whispered, "Mira…"
He shook her gently. "Wake up. We need to talk."
She stirred, groggy, rubbing her eyes. "What's wrong?"
He held up the sketches. "This. Care to explain?"
Her gaze flicked from the paper to his face. "Do you care to explain what you burnt?"
The room fell silent — just the rain ticking faintly against the windows.
Alden's expression darkened. "Did you go through my diary?"
"I didn't!" she shot back, standing now, her voice trembling with anger and hurt. "I saw ashes on the floor while I was cleaning — is it too much to ask?"
"Can you just stop it for once?" His tone snapped like a whip. "Please, Mira. Stop this. Can we just go back to being normal again?"
Her voice cracked. "You think I don't want that? You think I want to feel like this?"
He exhaled, rubbed his temple. "You're anxious again. If you don't want to open up to me, fine — I'll arrange someone else for you to talk to."
She shook her head wildly, panic flaring in her chest. "No! No, Alden, please, I'm not mad, I don't need help—"
He stepped closer, lowering his voice but not his control. "It's not about madness. You're scared after what happened at the asylum. That's normal."
Mira's lips quivered. "I just… I just want to go back to how we were," she whispered, tears streaking down her cheeks. "Without suspicion. Without this."
He sighed and drew her close, his voice turning soft, almost hypnotic. "Shh… it'll be fine."
Alden's hand traced her arm in slow, deliberate motions. "Take this," he murmured, holding out a small pill from his pocket. "It'll help. I'll help."
Her resistance melted under the weight of his calm. She swallowed it with trembling fingers, and he kissed the top of her head.
"Good girl," he whispered.
Her breathing slowed as he guided her toward the bedroom. His words followed her like a lullaby — "It'll be okay… it'll be okay…" — until the world dimmed and she slipped into unconsciousness.
Alden stood by the bed, watching her chest rise and fall. His expression softened — almost pitying — before hardening again into that clinical stillness.
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and whispered, "We can't have you remembering yet, my love."
Then he turned off the light and left the room in silence.