She didn’t know how long she ran.

  Through fog, through branches that felt too soft, too warm—like veins instead of wood.

  She finally stumbled out of the trees into a clearing, her breath catching like a snare in her throat.

  A house.

  Wooden. Dark. Still.

  Not one of the twelve she’d seen before. This one looked… older.

  She didn’t think. She just moved.

  Inside, the air was cold and dry.

  No furniture.

  No sound.

  Just floorboards and darkness.

  She pressed her back to the wall and slid down, gasping. Her hands were shaking.

  She pulled back her sleeves.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The veins were real.

  Dark threads, like ink or mold, branching from her fingertips up her forearms.

  She rubbed at them, frantic.

  They didn’t hurt.

  They didn’t feel.

  A whisper echoed from upstairs.

  “Ira?”

  Her body stiffened.

  It was a woman’s voice—fragile and wavering—but it felt like a pin driven into her memory.

  Something deep. Something warm.

  She rose to her feet slowly.

  Each stair creaked as she climbed.

  At the top, a hallway.

  And at the end of it, a half-open door.

  “Ira, sweetheart… you’re late coming home,” the voice said again.

  She reached the door and pushed it open.

  A woman sat in a rocking chair, back turned.

  Hair long and black. A red shawl draped over her shoulders.

  Ira stepped inside, heart thudding.

  “Ma…?”

  The chair stopped moving.

  The woman turned.

  And it wasn’t her mother.

  It was her.

  Older.

  Smiling.

  And blind.