The storm had already begun washing the city clean by the time Mira pushed through the archive doors, but she barely noticed the rain. Her pulse was still trapped in that tight, frantic rhythm from moments earlier, when she'd felt someone—or something—lean over her shoulder. Her skin buzzed as if the air inside the archive had imprinted itself on her.
Thunder cracked above her, sharp and metallic, followed by the heavy spill of rain. It soaked her hair instantly, plastering it to her face, but she didn't slow down. The water only made the world feel sharper, colder, more real—exactly what she needed after the shifting, suffocating atmosphere of that room.
"Mira!" Alex's shoes splashed in the puddles behind her. "Wait—hey—slow down for a second!"
She didn't. Not until his hand closed around her arm. Not hard, just enough pressure to anchor her.
"Mira," he said again, gentler this time. "You're shaking."
She hadn't realized she was.
Her breath sounded too loud in her ears. The city blurred around her, smeared by rainfall, headlights stretching like ghostly trails. And under all of it… her mind replayed that moment in the archive over and over: that shadow shape. That breath against her neck. That feeling of being watched by something that didn't blink.
She wrapped her arms around herself. "I just needed air."
Alex stepped in front of her to make her meet his eyes. Raindrops ran down his face, catching light from the flickering streetlamps.
"That wasn't just your imagination, was it?" he asked softly.
She exhaled shakily. "No. And you know it."
He didn't argue. Didn't tell her she needed sleep or that she was stressed. He just nodded, jaw tense. That alone made her want to cry from relief.
They took shelter beneath the awning of a closed café. It smelled faintly of old coffee grounds and wet pavement. The windows were dark, but the neon sign above them buzzed faintly, fighting to stay lit.
Mira leaned her back against the cold brick wall and closed her eyes for a moment, letting the rain hit the ground in waves around them.
"Talk to me," Alex murmured. "What happened in there?"
She opened her eyes slowly. "The box… there was something wrong with it. I don't know how else to describe it."
Alex swallowed. "You looked terrified."
"Because I felt something behind me," she whispered. "Before I even turned around. Like the room got smaller. Like something was—" Her voice cracked, and she pressed her hand to her forehead. "I don't know. Studying me."
Alex stepped closer, searching her face. "And the symbol on that box… your mother had the same one in that old journal, didn't she?"
Mira nodded slowly.
That symbol—an impossibly simple circle with a vertical line—had followed her since childhood. She remembered seeing it carved into old wood, etched into the underside of drawers, scribbled in places her mother thought she'd never look.
Her mother always said it was nothing. Just a mark. Just a habit.
But Mira had never believed her.
Alex shifted his weight, rainwater dripping off his jacket. "I think we need to talk to Dr. Harrow."
Mira's chest tightened. The image of Harrow's face when he saw the box flashed in her mind—how his expression had frozen, how he'd gone pale, how he'd lied without even bothering to make it convincing.
"No," she said. "Not yet."
"Mira—"
"He knew what it was," she cut in. "He knew exactly what it was. And he tried to brush us off. Whatever this is… he's involved. Or at least aware."
Alex didn't argue, but his concern deepened.
"Then what do we do?"
Her answer came out before she could filter it.
"We go back to my mother's house."
Alex blinked. "Tonight?"
"Right now."
"Mira—your mom hasn't lived there for years."
"I know." She swallowed. "But I think the answers are there. I think they always were."
Alex hesitated, then nodded slowly. "If we go… you're not going alone."
She didn't thank him. She couldn't—not with how tight her throat felt—but she let herself meet his eyes just long enough for him to understand.
They stepped back into the rain. The downpour had softened, turning the city into a blurred dreamscape. Streetlights reflected in long liquid strokes across the asphalt. The wind carried the faint smell of oil, rain, and wet metal.
As they walked toward Alex's car, Mira glanced at the puddles around her feet. For a moment, in the reflection, she thought she saw something stretched tall and thin walking beside her—its movements wrong, its outline trembling.
She froze. Her breath caught.
And then headlights washed over the puddle, scattering the reflection.
Alex noticed her stiffen. "Hey. Look at me."
She tried to steady her breathing.
"Whatever you saw," he murmured, "you don't have to face it alone."
She nodded, though nothing inside her felt steady.
They got into the car. The engine hummed to life. Mira pressed her forehead to the cool window and watched the city slip away as they headed toward the outskirts.
The familiar ache returned beneath her ribs—the same instinct that had drawn her toward forbidden rooms as a child. The same instinct that warned her when she wasn't alone.
The roads grew emptier. Houses spaced farther apart. Tree branches, heavy with rain, bent low over the street like they were listening.
When they finally turned down the old gravel road leading to her childhood home, Mira felt a tremor run through her body.
Her mother's house stood at the end of the path, partially swallowed by trees. The porch light glowed faintly, even though Mira knew the power should have been off.
The house seemed to… wait.
Alex parked beside the overgrown walkway. "Mira," he murmured, "are you sure you're ready?"
"No," she whispered. "But I don't think waiting will make it easier."
They stepped out into the damp night air. The rain had eased into a mist. The grass squished under their shoes, cold and slick. Lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the edges of the house.
Every window was dark except one.
The window of the locked room.
Mira's pulse hammered.
Her legs carried her toward the porch with a mixture of dread and certainty she couldn't explain. Alex stayed close beside her, his presence a steady warmth in the cold air.
When she reached the front door, her breath stilled. Memories hung around this doorway like shadows—her mother's hurried footsteps, her whispered warnings, the nights Mira would wake and find her mother standing here, ear pressed to the wood as if listening for something on the other side.
Alex glanced around. "The place feels… different."
"It always felt like this," Mira whispered. "Like the house was holding its breath."
She pushed open the door.
The hinges groaned. The air inside was stale and heavy, touched with the faint smell of old paper and something metallic beneath. The shadows seemed thick, layered.
They stepped into the living room. The familiar shapes were there—the worn armchair, the old bookshelves—but everything was cloaked in dust and silence.
As they moved deeper into the house, Mira felt the pressure in the air increase. A low hum seemed to vibrate in her bones, faint and rhythmic, as if the walls themselves remembered something.
She paused outside the hallway. Alex reached for her hand again, not asking permission, just offering support. She didn't pull away.
The hallway seemed longer than she remembered, the wallpaper darker and peeling at the seams. At the end of it stood the door she'd feared all her life.
The locked room.
Her mother had forbidden her from going near it. Had yelled—actually yelled—the only time Mira had tried.
Now the door stood silently in the shadows, its brass knob glinting faintly.
Mira couldn't breathe.
Alex lowered his voice. "Whatever's in there… it doesn't control you anymore."
She turned to him, and the fear inside her cracked just enough for air to get in. She nodded.
He squeezed her hand once, grounding her.
She took a step forward.
The humming in her chest grew stronger, matching the rhythm of her heartbeat. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the knob.
The moment her skin touched it, cold shot through her arm—deep, biting cold that felt like it came from somewhere far beneath the floorboards.
The house seemed to inhale.
"Mira," Alex whispered. "Wait—"
But she couldn't.
This door had been waiting for her.
She turned the knob.
The latch clicked.
The door eased open on its own.
A draft spilled out—cold enough to sting her eyes. The smell hit her next: old earth, something metallic, and something sweet and rotting, like flowers left too long in water.
The room was pitch black.
Mira tried to step inside, but her feet wouldn't move.
Alex lifted his phone to use the flashlight.
"Don't," Mira breathed.
But he already had.
The beam of light sliced through the darkness.
Mira expected dust. Old furniture. Boxes.
But the room was empty.
Except for the walls.
And the symbol.
The same circle-and-line mark, carved and painted and burned, repeated over every inch of every surface. Layered on top of each other, some so old they were cracked, some fresh enough that the paint still glistened.
Hundreds of them.
Thousands.
The air pressed in around her.
"Mira…" Alex whispered, horror threading through his voice. "What the hell is this?"
Her throat tightened.
Because she remembered now.
She remembered the nights she'd woken screaming.
The nights her mother had run to this door.
The nights Mira had felt something watching her from the other side.
Her mother hadn't been protecting the room from Mira.
She had been protecting Mira from what was in the room.
But it was too late now.
Because something in that darkness… moved.
A soft shift.
A scrape like long fingers dragging across wood.
Mira's breath froze in her chest.
Alex lowered his voice to barely a whisper. "We need to leave. Right now."
But Mira couldn't turn away.
The shadows seemed to lean forward, stretching toward them.
Something long and thin unfurled from the corner, just barely visible in the dim light, like a limb bending the wrong way.
Alex grabbed her arm, pulling hard.
"Mira—run."
And the shadows surged.