The raindrops fell on the leaves above, making a prickling sound like distant needles tapping skin.

  “Sister, wake up, wake up.”

  Sister? Who? she muttered, wanting to pull her blanket over her freezing body—but her hands gripped a rough woolen duvet that momentarily surprised her. Since when did she sleep with such a scratchy thing?

  Then it dawned on her—she was sprawled over an equally scratchy straw-stuffed mattress, with the chill of damp air clinging to her skin. Meanwhile, the voice of a child—high and tear-choked—tugged at something deep in her chest. This dream felt oddly real, as tiny hands pressed and shook her shoulder with desperate urgency.

  Jay stirred, a frown cutting across her brow before her green eyes shot open—sharp, searching, like a blade honed in the face of danger.

  Two small children knelt at her bedside, eyes wide and glinting in the dimness. They couldn’t have been older than six. One boy, lip trembling, tried not to flinch under her sudden gaze.

  “Sister…” he whispered again. “Brother and Anna… are scared.”

  Jay blinked. Was she sister? She sat up, then winced, clutching her temple as a headache bloomed like a bruise behind her eyes. The room tilted.

  I was just at the gym… right? No… the bus… on my way to school… but this place is strange—

  The air smelled like mold, ash, and something sweetly sour—wet leaves and branches. Her eyes adjusted to her surroundings, confusion gripping her.

  This place… Was I kidnapped? But the likelihood of that seemed off—why would the children call her sister?

  As if just questioning things kick-started her brain, a sharp pang of memories collided with reality. Not hers. Or—maybe it was. She was unsure. The girl in the memories was her… but not her. Nothing made sense.

  You don’t speak unless spoken to.

  Don’t look them in the eyes.

  If you finish scrubbing before dawn, you can eat.

  The commands came with images: of relatives, and what she presumed were her parents and the siblings. It came in snippets. The clearest ones were those of herself—well, the more timid, sickly version. The girl walked with her shoulders hunched, quiet as a mouse.

  The only thing Jay could think was that she had an alternate version of herself, and for some reason, she had taken over that person’s life.

  She rubbed her temple harder. “What the hell is going on?”

  The boy flinched again. “D-Don’t be angry, sister, we—we just—”

  “I’m not…” Jay stopped herself. His name came to memory—Spencer. She took a deep breath. Her voice softened instinctively. “I’m not angry.”

  But her hands were shaking.

  Whose memories are these? Mine… or hers?

  Jay sat frozen on the straw mattress, her legs draped over the side, toes just brushing the cold packed-earth floor, trying to digest it.

  She remembered it now… the bus ride—how mundane it had felt. Then a red light. Headlights. Horns. Screaming tires. Time slowing into a stretched whisper. Then… this.

  Had she died? If so, was this heaven? Or hell? she pondered.

  “Sister, please don’t let Auntie Wang sell Anna.”

  The words brought Jay out of her musing as she turned to the small child.

  The little girl—Anna—stood barefoot, shivering, her hands clutched into fists at her sides. Her cheeks were streaked with dirt and tears. Her brother stood beside her, clutching the hem of her tunic.

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  “Anna can make fire… and cook!” she pleaded, her voice breaking with practiced desperation. “And brother Spenc—he can wash vegetables, clean bowls… we’ll work really hard, I promise. We’ll make home happy again, just like before…”

  The word before hung in the air like ash.

  Jay didn’t answer at first. Her mouth opened, but the words snagged on uncertainty. Her gaze drifted to the shadow in the corner—she jumped in fright. An old woman was seated on a crooked tree trunk, hands clasped in front of her, foot tapping in slow, deliberate movements. Jay had been so distracted she failed to register the woman, partly cloaked by the shadows.

  Aunt Wang.

  Her face was carved like bark, lips drawn into a constant scowl, one brow slightly raised in a quiet, derisive arc. When Anna finished speaking, the woman gave a sharp exhale—half scoff, half sigh—and shook her head without looking up.

  Jay’s temples throbbed harder. A memory slammed through her like a blunt strike:

  The girl—that is to say, the other Jay—had dared to speak out just this once, vehemently, against selling her siblings.

  A slap. A shove. Her head hitting the wooden threshold.

  Blackness.

  And then—this. There had to be a coincidence. On Earth, a car drives into and most likely kills her—and her alternate version. She paused and eyed the seated woman and clenched her fists.

  Had the other Jay died from the shove?

  The mattress creaked beneath her as she stood. There was no time to keep pondering—she had to calm the crying siblings and make sure that woman stayed away. Hesitantly, she padded closer and met two pairs of blue eyes.

  “Anna is a good girl,” she said, each word deliberate, loud enough to cut through the thick tension. “Sister won’t sell you. No matter how poor we are… I will never sell any of you.”

  She knelt, brushing Anna’s tear-damp cheek with the back of her hand. The girl flinched at first, but then leaned into the touch like a kitten finding warmth.

  Jay rose slowly, her body still shaky, her headache pulsing like a drumbeat behind her eyes. She turned to Aunt Wang.

  The old woman finally looked up. Her eyes—muddy, unreadable—locked with Jay’s. One corner of her mouth twitched, but she said nothing.

  The air in the room thickened, like pressure building before a storm. Rain thudded harder on the roof.

  Jay didn’t know the rules here. But she knew this look. Predatory patience. A person testing boundaries.

  “These children stay,” Jay said, voice quiet but clear.

  Aunt Wang sighed—loud and theatrical—and pushed up from her stool. She waved her hands dramatically, searching for words before sneering, “I’m trying to help you starving brats. Doing you all a favor.”

  Jay’s jaw tensed. She didn’t need more memories to tell her that this aunt was no good.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the very woman step toward the children, fingers curled like talons, reaching for the boy’s arm.

  Jay moved on instinct.

  She planted herself in front of the kids and snapped out a front kick that caught Aunt Wang in the forearm before she could grab hold.

  The slap of impact echoed. The older woman shrieked and stumbled back, clutching her arm.

  “You little bitch,” she spat, stunned.

  With the practice of a martial artist, Jay held her stance at the ready, taking in her opponent with seasoned ease.

  “Touch them again,” she said, voice flat, “and I’ll aim higher.”

  Aunt Wang stared, eyes wild, lips pulled in a snarl. But Jay saw it—the flicker of fear. She hadn’t expected resistance. Especially not from the girl she’d pushed around for years.

  “Fine!” Aunt Wang snapped, turning with a hiss. “Starve, then! Let the goblins eat you, for all I care!”

  She stormed toward the door, muttering curses, and slammed it behind her with a gust of wind and rain.

  Silence.

  Then: “Wow!” Spencer blurted. He bounced on his heels, eyes glowing. “Sister, you looked so cool! What was that?!”

  He tugged at Jay’s sleeve, dragging Anna with him. The little girl blinked up at Jay with awe and confusion tangled in her wide eyes.

  Jay exhaled through a tight laugh and ruffled the boy’s hair. “I dunno, kiddo. I guess I learned it in a dream.”

  Her knees buckled. With the waning adrenaline, she felt the dire state of her body—fatigue and hunger.

  She staggered, catching herself on the wall beside the bed. Her limbs trembled,

  and with her guard down, the surge of sporadic memories intensified—an avalanche of them plowed into her head.

  This body—also Jay—was fourteen, same as she had been. The eldest daughter of a hunter named Geno. He’d left the family grounds and the village’s safety to build something new with his wife, Marry. They’d come to this abandoned hut in the mountain woods, poor but free from the mistreatment they faced in his family home. Geno had hunted. Marry had worked the nearby village. They’d begun, slowly, to make a life.

  Until Geno didn’t come home. Goblins, they said.

  Until Marry came back in pieces. Bandits, they said.

  And now: three children. No protection. No food. Only Aunt Wang, circling like a carrion bird.

  Jay sank down onto the creaky bed, hand pressed to her forehead. The mattress sighed under her weight, thin straw barely masking the slats beneath.

  “Shit,” she murmured. “They really are alone.”

  Her eyes flicked to the children. Anna clung to her brother, silent, but watching. The boy still buzzed with excitement, too young to understand the weight of what had just happened.

  Jay had seen monsters in her world too—monsters in suits and foster licenses, who smiled for the paperwork but locked fridge doors at night.

  But at least in that world, monsters played at restraint.

  Here, there was no restraint to speak of just survival.

  Jay clenched her fists, resting them on her knees.

  “Not this time,” she said aloud. “You’ve got me now.”

  And for the first time since arriving, she didn’t just feel like a stranger in a stolen body.

  She felt like the big sister they needed her to be.