Ira backed out of the room, heart hammering, her breath coming in ragged pulls.

  She didn’t wait for more answers.

  She turned and ran—down the hallway of broken mirrors, past the swaying bulb in the guesthouse, out into the thickening fog.

  The village looked different now.

  The slate roofs slanted lower, the walls of the houses seemed to lean inward.

  As if Dharmagaon had exhaled, and everything inside had shifted.

  She sprinted toward the path she’d come from, hoping to retrace her steps.

  But where the trail once curled into the woods, now only thick, wet trees loomed—no path, no stones, no trail markers.

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  The monk’s footprints were gone.

  The forest itself was wrong.

  Leaves hung like strips of cloth, motionless despite the wind. The trees creaked softly, but there was no breeze.

  “Ira,” a voice called from behind her.

  She froze.

  Not because of the voice—but because it was her own.

  Exactly her tone. Her pitch. Her breath.

  “Ira, wait,” it said again.

  She turned slowly.

  Someone stood between two trees. Same coat. Same face.

  But it wasn’t mirroring her movements.

  It took a step closer.

  She backed away.

  “Who are you?” she asked, voice quaking.

  The other Ira smiled.

  “I’m the one who stayed,” she said.

  Then she raised her hand.

  And in her palm was a black stone—shining, warm, and pulsing like a second heart.