They walked without speaking.
Not because there was nothing to say, but because everything that could be said felt too fragile, too dangerous, too easily shattered if spoken aloud. The city moved around them—traffic humming, people crossing streets, morning sun reflecting off windows—but Mira felt detached from all of it.
Like she was watching someone else's life from behind glass.
Alex stayed close, matching her steps exactly, his presence protective but tense. She could tell he was thinking—furiously thinking—trying to stitch together a plan, a map, a way out of something that didn't seem to have exits.
Every few seconds, she caught him glancing sideways at her as if to make sure she wasn't going to blink out of existence.
Or fall apart.
Or remember something that would hurt her.
But she already remembered something—the red door, the whisper, the feeling of dying without dying—and it was like a splinter lodged deep inside her skull.
She finally broke the silence.
"Alex…when did you first know something was wrong with me?"
He hesitated. "Today isn't the right time for—"
"It is," she said softly. "Because I feel like I'm piecing myself together from broken mirrors. And you're the only one who's seen any version of me before this one."
He exhaled heavily, as if each breath carried weight. "I didn't know. Not at first. Not this time."
"This time," she repeated quietly.
Alex stopped walking. They stood on the corner of Ashford Street, the wind brushing through them, the low murmur of distant traffic a steady undercurrent.
He looked at her with an expression that held exhaustion, sorrow, and something like guilt.
"Mira…in the last cycle, you and I weren't—close."
He searched for the right words.
"You didn't trust me. And maybe you were right not to."
Her breath caught. "Why?"
"Because I didn't tell you the truth soon enough. And by the time I tried…" His jaw clenched. "It was too late."
Mira's pulse sped up. There were so many questions pressing against her tongue—but the fear of hearing the answers kept her quiet. After a moment, she whispered:
"How did I die?"
A painful silence.
Alex didn't look away.
He didn't soften it.
He didn't lie.
"You opened the red door."
Her chest tightened until breathing felt like swallowing knives. "And what was behind it?"
Alex shook his head. "I never found out. I wasn't with you when it happened. I was too far behind. By the time I reached you…" He blinked hard. "I only saw the aftermath."
Somewhere deep inside her, a chill rooted itself. "What did I look like? When you found me?"
"Don't," he said immediately, voice breaking a little. "Don't make me say that. You don't need that memory, not if you can still avoid it."
She swallowed the tremor in her throat. "Then what do you think is behind the door?"
Alex ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Something that shouldn't exist. Something that doesn't just kill you—it resets you. Or pulls a version of you from another point. I don't know. I just know that when you open it, you don't come back the same."
Mira hugged her arms around herself as a sharp wind cut down the street. "Why did I open it? In the last cycle."
He hesitated again.
"Alex. Tell me."
"You thought it would stop the loop," he whispered. "You thought that if you faced whatever was behind it, everything would reset for the last time. That you could break out."
"And did I?" she asked, voice cracking. "Did anything change?"
"Yes," he said quietly. "You forgot everything."
A hollow ache spread through her chest. "So the red door resets…me."
"Or replaces you," he said. "Or rewrites you." He shook his head. "I don't know which version of you I'm talking to now. But I know that you're still you because you haven't opened it yet."
Yet.
The word clung to her like a curse.
"And that man in the archive," she said, voice trembling. "Has he been in every cycle too?"
Alex nodded once. Slowly.
"Who is he?"
"I don't know his name," Alex admitted. "But he always shows up right before you start to remember. And every time, he tries to force you to the red door."
"Why would he want that?"
"No idea. He never speaks clearly. He talks in riddles and warnings and half-truths. But he always says the same thing: 'This is the last cycle.' Every single time."
Mira looked down at her hands. They felt cold. Bloodless.
"If this really is the last cycle," she whispered, "what happens if I open the door again?"
Alex stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Then you're gone for good."
Her breath caught. "How do you know?"
"Because that man said it. And the thing is…" He swallowed. "He's never been wrong."
A low gust of wind blew past them, cold and hollow, like an exhale from some invisible mouth.
Mira looked up at Alex. "So what do we do now?"
"We go somewhere safe. Somewhere they can't track you."
"And where's that?"
He held her gaze. "The only place you haven't gone in any cycle."
"Where?"
Alex exhaled slowly, as if saying it aloud was a decision he might regret.
"My apartment."
They reached his building after twenty minutes of tense silence. It was older than Mira expected. The brick exterior was weathered, vines creeping up one wall, windows slightly distorted by age. The kind of place that seemed quiet even when filled with people.
Alex unlocked the door, letting her step inside first. His apartment was meticulously neat—but not sterile. Soft lighting. Dark wood furniture. Bookshelves full of worn novels. A few plants in the window. A lived-in space.
"Sit," he said gently.
She settled onto the sofa. He took the armchair opposite her, elbows on his knees, looking like he was trying to solve a puzzle that refused to stay still.
"Okay," he murmured. "Let's piece this together. Everything that's happened since the day you got the letter."
She nodded.
He pulled out a small notebook. "Start from the beginning."
She inhaled deeply. "The letter arrived on Tuesday. It arrived in my mailbox—no stamp, no return address. Inside was a single sentence: You die in three days."
Alex scribbled. "Next."
"Then the man appeared in the archive. He knew my name. He said he knew I wouldn't remember him."
"And he had the mark," Alex said.
She nodded and touched behind her ear subconsciously.
"Then I found the note in my apartment," she continued. "My handwriting."
"That part bothers me," Alex admitted. "You've never left yourself notes before. Not even in other cycles."
"Well," she whispered, "maybe this time…something's different."
He tapped his pen. "Or something is leaking through. You said you heard humming. Did you recognize the melody?"
Before she could answer, a sudden sharp pain knifed through her skull.
She gasped, hands flying to her temples.
"Mira!" Alex lunged forward. "What is it? Another memory?"
The room tilted. Her breath stuttered.
A flash—
A dim hallway.
A woman sobbing.
Her own voice saying, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."
Then—
A door slamming.
Red.
Red like blood.
Red like warning.
She snapped back with a choked gasp.
Alex steadied her shoulders. "Mira, what did you see?"
"I…there was someone crying. A woman. And I think—it was because of me."
"Do you remember her face?"
"I didn't see it. Only heard her."
He watched her closely. "This is new. You've never remembered other people before. Only places."
"What does that mean?"
"It means the cracks are widening," he murmured. "And once memories start bleeding in, they don't stop."
She looked at him slowly. "Alex…did we know each other in the last cycles? Really know each other?"
He froze.
His silence was an answer.
"Alex."
He exhaled. "Yes."
Her heart beat faster. "Were we…something more?"
Another silence.
This one heavier.
Finally, softly:
"Yes."
The word landed between them like a tremor.
"But Mira…you don't remember that. And you shouldn't feel obligated to relive it."
She swallowed. "Do you still…"
"Mira, stop," he said quickly, voice low and pained. "Don't ask me that. Not now. Not when you're in danger and not yourself."
His refusal wasn't harsh. It was protective. But there was something else too—fear. Fear of history repeating.
She looked down, fingers twisting the red ribbon hair tie she still carried. "Alex…why are you always trying to save me?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at her. "Because the last time I didn't, I lost you. And I can't—" He cut himself off. "I just can't let that happen again."
Her chest ached.
They sat in silence for a long moment, the apartment heavy with everything unsaid.
Then Alex's phone buzzed.
He grabbed it quickly, eyes narrowing.
A message from an unknown number.
Her stomach dropped.
Alex's voice was tight when he read it aloud:
"Stop hiding. Bring her to the red door."
Another buzz.
Second message.
"She's already remembering."
Mira's hands trembled.
A third message.
A photo.
Mira felt the blood drain from her face. Her breath caught. She covered her mouth.
It was a photo of her
standing at her own bedroom window
from the outside
taken last night.
Alex's jaw clenched. "That's it. We're leaving. They're not just following you—they're watching you."
"Where do we go?" she whispered.
He didn't hesitate.
"There's one place they won't expect us to go."
"Where?"
Alex's eyes met hers, steady and grim, but full of something fierce beneath the fear.
"To the red door."
Mira's heart stopped.
"But you said—"
"I know what I said," Alex cut in. "But they're forcing us into a corner. And if you open it alone, you die. If we open it together…"
He swallowed hard.
"Maybe this time we break the cycle."
Mira's pulse thundered.
"And if we don't?" she whispered.
Alex stepped close—closer than he ever had—his voice low, fierce, and trembling with something raw.
"Then I'm not letting you face it alone again."
She stared at him, breath shallow.
For the first time, she felt the loop not as a threat
—but as a weight they shared.
Something binding them.
Something they had carried for lifetimes.
"Okay," she whispered. "We go together."
And outside the apartment window—
across the street
in the reflection of a darkened shop window
a figure stood perfectly still
watching them
unmoving
unblinking
The man with the red mark.
And he smiled.