Mira didn't remember falling asleep. She only remembered the sound—a low, rhythmic murmuring, like someone was whispering right into her skull. Words that weren't quite words. Shapes of meaning that slid through her thoughts like ink dropped in water, darkening everything it touched.
When her eyes snapped open, her bedroom was washed in the thin gray-blue haze of early dawn. The world outside was still barely awake. But Mira wasn't alone.
Someone was humming.
A lullaby.
Her skin prickled instantly, a cold shiver that raced down her arms. She shot upright, heartbeat hammering. Her bedroom door was slightly open—not wide, just enough for a shadow to slice across the floor. The humming drifted from the hallway, soft but unmistakably human.
She froze, breath held, every muscle locked.
You're hallucinating. Stress. Lack of sleep. Just breathe.
But this wasn't the first hallucination. And something about this humming—this melody—felt surgically precise, as if it was meant for her and her alone.
Slowly, quietly, Mira slid her legs out of the bed and stood. Her toes curled against the floorboard, remembering the way they had creaked the night before when Alex had visited. But this—this felt different. He wouldn't hum a lullaby. And he wouldn't slip into her apartment uninvited.
She edged to the door, fingers trembling as she pushed it open a few centimeters more.
The hallway was empty.
But the humming didn't stop.
It grew clearer, drifting from the living room.
She stepped out. Softly. Carefully. With the shaky courage of someone moving in a place that looked like her home but no longer felt like it.
When she reached the edge of the hallway, the humming cut off.
Silence dropped like a trap.
Mira peeked around the corner.
The living room was empty.
But her front door was unlocked.
Not open—unlocked.
She knew she had locked it last night. She had tested it twice.
Her pulse thudded in her ears. She backed up slowly, eyes scanning for any sign of movement.
Then she saw it.
A single piece of paper sat on her coffee table.
Her chest tightened. She already knew what it was even before she got close enough to see the handwriting.
Her handwriting.
Again.
Same slanted curve, same cautious tilt. A perfect copy.
With trembling fingers, she flipped the note.
"You woke up too early this time."
No signature.
Just that.
Her legs nearly folded beneath her. She clutched the edge of the table, swallowing panic.
"Too early for what?" she whispered to no one.
There was no answer, and she didn't expect one. Instead, she waited there—heart hammering—for what felt like minutes but could have been seconds. The apartment felt too still, too quiet, too watched.
Her phone buzzed suddenly.
She jumped.
The screen read:
Alex: Are you awake?
For a moment, she just stared at the message, frozen between instinct and fear. If someone had been in her apartment, if they'd left this note…would telling Alex put him in danger too? Or was he already part of whatever this was?
She didn't know.
But something in her gut said she couldn't face this alone right now.
Mira: Yeah. Can you come over?
His response came immediately.
Alex: I'm already downstairs.
Her breath caught.
Already downstairs.
Not "on my way."
Not "give me a minute."
Already.
"What are you doing?" she whispered under her breath, part fear, part frustration, part…something else she couldn't name yet.
She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Alex was climbing the last few stairs, breath slightly visible in the cold draft. He looked…concerned. More than she expected.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
She stepped aside to let him in. "Someone was in my apartment."
He froze. "Wait—actually in here?"
She nodded. "They left this."
Alex picked up the note. His jaw tightened. "Mira, this handwriting is—"
"I know," she cut in. "I know."
His eyes flicked toward hers, searching. "Did you…write anything like this last night? Sleepwalking? Stress—"
"No," she said, firmer than she meant to. "I didn't write it."
He held the note for a long moment, then placed it gently back on the table. "Okay. Then someone is trying to mess with you."
She exhaled shakily. That was the logical answer, wasn't it? But logic wasn't enough anymore. She could feel panic tightening its grip around her throat.
"Alex," she whispered, "what if this is connected to the letter? And the man in the archive? And the red mark behind my ear?"
At the mention of the mark, Alex's brows rose slightly—not in surprise, but recognition.
She noticed.
"Alex…you knew something about that mark, didn't you?"
He hesitated. Actually hesitated. And that scared her more than anything else so far.
"I know someone who has one," he admitted quietly. "An old friend. Different place, different story. But it looked similar."
"And what happened to them?" she pressed.
He swallowed. "They started remembering things that weren't theirs."
"Memories?"
He nodded.
"Of what?"
He hesitated again. "Past lives. Or something like them. I never believed it. Thought it was trauma, or some psychological thing." He shook his head. "Now I'm not so sure."
Mira sank onto the sofa. The room seemed to tilt slightly, like the ground wasn't entirely stable.
"I'm not remembering anything like that," she said. "But something is happening to me. Something that doesn't make sense."
Alex sat beside her. Not too close, not too far. Just close enough that she felt the warmth of another human being, grounding her.
"What happened this morning?" he asked. "Exactly."
She told him—the humming, the unlocked door, the note. He listened with an intensity that made her wonder if he was comparing her story to someone else's.
When she finished, he exhaled slowly. "Mira…you're not safe here."
She tensed. "You think I should leave town?"
"No. I think you should stay somewhere I can keep an eye on you."
Her breath caught. "With you?"
He didn't answer immediately. "Just until we figure out what's going on."
A part of her wanted to refuse—she barely knew him. She shouldn't trust him. She shouldn't trust anyone.
But another part, the trembling, exhausted, terrified part, clung to the idea of not being alone.
"I'll think about it," she said softly.
A subtle relief flickered across his expression.
Before she could say anything else, her phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
Her heart clenched painfully.
She opened the message.
"You left something at the archive."
Mira went cold.
Alex leaned closer. "What does it say?"
Wordlessly, she handed him the phone. His jaw tightened again.
"Mira…" he whispered, "you didn't leave anything there."
She already knew.
Suddenly, a second message appeared.
"Come before noon."
A third.
"Come alone."
And then—
A photo.
A picture of her red ribbon hair tie.
Except—
She wasn't wearing it.
And it wasn't in her apartment.
This was taken somewhere else.
Her stomach dropped. "They have something of mine."
Alex looked at her with sharp, almost fierce protectiveness. "You are not going alone."
The buzzing stopped. The apartment was silent again, but the air seemed charged—alive with threat.
Mira's hands shook. "Alex…what do they want from me?"
He looked at the window, jaw set. "I don't know who they are yet. But I know one thing—whatever they want, it's not something you want to give."
A strange pressure built behind her eyes. Like a memory trying to push its way through.
A flash.
A corridor.
A red door.
Her hand reaching for the handle.
Someone behind her whispering—
"You never learn."
She jerked, gasping.
"Mira?" Alex's voice pulled her back. "What just happened?"
"I…I think I remembered something." She grabbed his arm without thinking, breath quickening. "I saw a red door."
Alex went completely still.
"What kind of red door?" he asked quietly.
She frowned. How could she describe it? "Old. Heavy. Like it belonged in a place that didn't want to be found."
Alex closed his eyes briefly, like something she said confirmed a fear he hadn't wanted confirmed.
"Mira…listen to me carefully," he said, voice low, urgent. "If they're sending you memories, or unlocking them—this isn't random. And it isn't new." He met her eyes. "This door…are you absolutely sure you've never been there?"
"I don't think so," she said. "But it felt like I had."
He nodded slowly. "Then we need to go to the archive."
Her chest tightened. "They said to come alone."
"Mira," he said, leaning forward, voice steady, "they already walked into your home. They already touched your things. They already know how to reach you. The only mistake you can make now is following their rules."
She took a shaky breath. "Okay. We go together."
He stood, helping her up. "Then let's go. Before whoever sent that message decides to come back here."
As they headed toward the door, Mira paused—something nagging at the edge of her consciousness.
The humming.
The lullaby.
She suddenly remembered the tune. Not all of it, but enough to know she had heard it before.
Not this morning.
Not yesterday.
Another memory. Another life.
A chill swept through her so violently she stopped walking.
Alex turned. "Mira?"
She whispered, barely audible—
"I think someone is trying to remind me of something I forgot."
Alex's expression shifted—concern, fear, recognition, and something else she couldn't name.
"We'll figure it out," he said softly. "Whatever it is."
But as they stepped out of the apartment and locked the door behind them, Mira couldn't shake the feeling that she was heading back toward something she had once run from.
And this time—
There would be nowhere left to run.