Morning light slipped softly through the curtains, brushing the walls in golden warmth. Mira stirred awake, her hair tangled in sleepy curls, eyes blinking against the brightness. The faint aroma of coffee wafted through the room — Alden was already up. She yawned, rubbing her eyes, and shuffled toward the sound, her oversized pyjamas dragging lightly against the wooden floor.
Alden stood near the wall, his mug steaming in his hand, gaze fixed intently on the painting she'd made last night — the one she thought he didn't like. Mira tilted her head, confused, her voice raspy with sleep.
"I thought you didn't like it?"
Alden turned, his lips curving into a quiet smile. "Like it?" he said, setting his cup down. "I love it. It's beautiful." He took a moment, eyes glinting with that familiar warmth. "Which gives me an idea — your birthday's near. What do you say we go to the park that day? Have a picnic. Just the two of us."
Her drowsiness melted into a grin. "A picnic sounds perfect," she said softly.
He chuckled, shaking his head as memories played in his mind. "Remember when we used to go out a lot before? Like that time we went skating." His laughter erupted, raw and genuine. "We both sucked. You fell flat on your face and kept sliding across the ice like a dead body."
Mira covered her face, laughing uncontrollably. "Yeah, and my face was red for hours! And don't even start on how sore I was after that day."
He stepped closer, ruffling her messy hair. "Good times," he murmured before heading to the shower, still chuckling.
While he got ready for work, Mira busied herself in the kitchen, making French toast and humming quietly. The clatter of plates, the soft hiss of butter, the sunlight — it all felt deceptively peaceful. They ate together, exchanged smiles, and when Alden finally left for work, she waited until the sound of his car faded before her expression shifted.
Her heart thudded softly against her ribs as she sat by the table, staring at her phone screen. She searched and typed in the address — Ozan's house. Her fingers trembled slightly. If the dream was real… she had to know.
The drive was quiet. The sky hung low and heavy, a bruise-colored gray. When she finally arrived, a chill slipped through her spine. The tree from her dreams stood there — half alive, half dead, its roots clawing into the ground like they were hiding secrets.
She stepped out of the car, her shoes crunching against the dry earth. The carvings on the trunk caught her eye: O + S. Not O + M. Her brow furrowed. "Seyran," she whispered. "His best friend…"
Curiosity turned to unease. She scanned the area, climbed the tree — just like in her dream — Ozan's voice echoing in her head: Always looking, never risking, never climbing.
When she jumped down, her feet hit something hollow beneath the mud. Thud.
Her breath caught. She dropped to her knees and began digging with frantic hands, the damp soil biting into her nails. Soon, a wooden box emerged — its surface carved with a single word: Ozan.
Inside were pieces of a forgotten childhood — hair ties, a teddy bear missing an arm, childish crayon drawings. But there was also an envelope. Mira's pulse quickened as she tore it open. Compromised photos spilled out, twisted and disturbing. The faces were blurred, but something about them screamed danger.
Her stomach turned. "Well," she muttered bitterly, shoving them back inside, "Ozan was a pervert. No wonder Seyran killed him."
She buried the box again, wiping her trembling hands on her jeans. The silence pressed in — until she heard it. A faint noise from the house.
Her head snapped up. A shadow moved across the upstairs window.
Slowly, carefully, Mira stepped toward the front door. The air thickened with dread, the floorboards creaking beneath her as she ascended the staircase. Her breath hitched. She pushed the door open — and froze.
Cünayet was there.
He was in front of the window, his posture relaxed but his eyes cold, glinting with something dangerous. The faintest smirk played on his lips.
"Hello, sunshine," he said, his voice smooth and venomous.