She thought she'd been running. From something dangerous. Something sharp. But she couldn't remember now. She was home.

Safe.

The floor was warm beneath her feet. That was the first thing Liz noticed. Not too hot – just warm enough to feel safe. Familiar. Like it always had been, in that house with the squeaky stairs and the humming walls.

She padded through the hallway slowly, barefoot in oversized pyjamas. Her sleeves drooped past her wrists. The fabric was soft with age – a faded cartoon fox grinning across her chest, though half its face had peeled away in the wash years ago. But now it was new again. Crisp. Whole.

The house stretched around her like a memory breathing in. The walls were painted a soft blue-grey, worn smooth by years of careful cleaning and small fingers dragging down the halls. A corkboard hung crooked near the stairs, pinned with report cards and scribbled notes: "Piano practice – Wed." "Mum's birthday – ❤️". The hallway runner was old but spotless, the red-and-gold pattern faded in just the right places – worn by years of Sunday mornings, toy parades, and racing feet.

To her right, the living room unfurled in quiet perfection. Sunlight filtered through white curtains into gold-dusted beams that hit the couch cushions like theatre spotlights. Her toys were right where she'd left them. Crayons in a chipped plastic bucket. A half-finished puzzle on the rug. A drawing on the table – stick figures holding hands in front of a crooked house. It was her family. She couldn't remember when she drew it. But it looked right.

The furniture hadn't changed. The big brown couch sagged a little in the middle, a dent where her dad always sat. Her mum's blanket – knitted from dozens of mismatched colours – was draped neatly over the backrest. The faint smell of lavender and old wood polish lingered in the air, warm and clean and sweet.

She stared at the drawing for a long time. Her head tilted slightly.

Then she turned. The mirror on the wall beside the TV caught her reflection.

Nine years old. Blonde hair straightened awkwardly behind her ears. Small mouth. Big eyes. Innocent. Still.

But something about the way her eyes moved… A flicker. Not colour. Not light.

A twitch behind her gaze. Green, just for a second.

She didn't notice.

She walked past the mirror, and the reflection lagged half a heartbeat behind.

Her breath hitched. Her hands curled and uncurled at her sides.

She knew this house. This room. This day.

But she didn't know why her skin felt too thin. Why her chest felt heavy. Why her eyes stung when she blinked too fast. She wasn't sick. She wasn't sad.

So why did it feel like something was ending?

She sat on the edge of the couch and stared at the hallway. She knew what was at the end of it. The kitchen. The smell of pancakes. Her mother's voice. The world as it was supposed to be.

Still, she didn't move.

The wrongness pressed closer – not loud, not sharp. Just there. Nesting behind her heartbeat. A weight with no shape.

She whispered to herself, without knowing why: "I think I forgot something."

And the house breathed around her, soft and slow, like it didn't hear her. Or like it had been waiting.

…………………

"Lizzy! Breakfast is ready!"

Her mother's voice drifted in like music, warm and round and alive. Liz blinked – the hallway behind her already fading into a blur of star charts and floorboards – and followed the smell of pancakes.

The kitchen opened around her like a memory she didn't know she still had.

Gingham curtains fluttered gently at the window, catching gold sunlight that spilled across the tiled floor. The air was thick with butter and maple syrup, with something soft and floral underneath – the vanilla hand cream her mother always wore. A pan sizzled on the stove. A tea kettle hissed quietly beside it. And at the centre of it all stood April Jaeger – smiling, real, wearing a faded blue apron streaked with flour.

She looked exactly as Liz remembered.

Or maybe better.

The lines on her face were fewer. Her hair, tied up in a messy knot, glowed copper in the morning light. She moved with a kind of calm joy, humming faintly to the tune playing from the little kitchen radio – Vivaldi, maybe. Spring. The music wrapped around the room like ribbon.

April turned and saw her.

"There you are, sleepyhead," she said, stepping forward and bending slightly to kiss Liz's forehead. Her lips were warm. Real. "I was starting to think I'd have to come drag you out of bed."

Liz flinched.

Just for a second. Her body reacted before her thoughts caught up. Because for one breathless moment, as April leaned in—

Her hands weren't warm. They were red. Slick. There'd been firelight behind her. Screaming. Metal bending. A hallway scorched black.

Liz blinked, and it was gone. Her mother was smiling. Flour on her apron. Nothing wrong. Just a flash of something she didn't know how to name.

Liz stood frozen for a second. Then moved to the table and sat, bare legs swinging just above the floor. A stack of pancakes waited for her – perfectly round, perfectly golden. A small pat of butter sat in the centre, melting in symmetrical spirals. A glass of orange juice sparkled beside it, condensation beading along the rim like tiny stars.

She picked up her fork.

The first bite tasted like everything she'd ever wanted back.

Warmth. Sugar. Childhood.

But something in her chest didn't unclench.

April turned back to the stove, humming.

Liz stared down at her plate.

"Did I…" she said, voice barely above a whisper. "Did I do something bad?"

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April didn't turn. "Of course not, sweetie."

"But I feel—" Liz paused. Her throat tightened.

April set the spatula down gently, wiped her hands on the apron, and turned around. Her smile never changed. "You were just having a scary dream. But it's over now. You're safe. Just eat."

Liz stared down again.

The pancakes were still perfect. Exactly the same as before. No melted edge. No uneven brown. Not one crumb out of place.

She took another bite.

It tasted… exactly the same.

Exactly.

Her hands curled in her lap. The sunlight on the table didn't flicker. The music didn't skip. Her mother's smile didn't waver.

It was all perfect.

…………………

The pancake on Liz's fork hovered halfway to her mouth. The syrup curled in a perfect amber thread, refusing to fall.

She stared at it.

The air smelled like browned butter and vanilla. The sun caught the edge of her plate in a way that felt posed – too warm, too golden.

A flicker passed at the edge of her vision.

She turned her head slightly. The toaster sat where it always did – chrome bright, polished to a mirror finish. Nothing out of place.

But something tickled at her spine.

She looked again.

There – just for a heartbeat – a shape. In the curve of the toaster's belly. A face. Pale. Wide-eyed. Watching.

Gone.

Liz froze. Her breath caught halfway up her throat.

She turned in her chair. Slowly.

The kitchen behind her was empty, except for the smell of pancakes and her mother's faint humming. The kind of hum that rose and fell like a lullaby heard through a door.

She looked back at the toaster. Her reflection stared back. Younger than she expected. Hair messier than she remembered. No fire. No crown. No red in her eyes.

She blinked hard and shook her head.

"Just sleepy," she mumbled to herself.

But the feeling didn't pass. It lingered like the residue of a dream, sticky and unformed.

Then the kettle began to steam.

Liz turned to it automatically – and gasped.

In the brushed metal, something was moving. A flicker. A face. Not hers.

A pale Japanese woman, mouth moving too fast to follow, slamming her hand against the inside of the reflection.

Liz flinched back, her fork clattering onto the table.

The figure pounded again – visible only in the curve of the kettle. A woman's face, frantic, her eyes wide with panic.

Liz stared. Her heart was racing now. She couldn't breathe.

She turned toward the actual kitchen.

Nothing.

No woman. No stranger.

Just her mother by the stove, humming along to the faint classical music playing through the speakers. Something with violins and distant bells.

"I thought I…" Liz whispered.

Her mother didn't look up.

Liz glanced toward the mirror above the sink.

There— again. The reflection in the kettle warped. Hana's mouth was moving faster now, desperate.

And then—

A sound.

Thin. Splintering.

"Liz."

It pierced her like glass under skin. Not loud. Not clear. But real. Liz staggered back, the air knocked from her lungs. Her heart thundered.

Hana.

Flickering. Stuttering. Her hands pressed to the glass, mouth moving in a voiceless scream. Her body looked half-transparent, glitching in and out like a signal gone bad. Her image jerked, trembled – as if something massive behind her was pulling her backward by invisible strings.

And something was behind her.

A shadow.

Tall. Sloped. Indistinct.

Its limbs stretched out of frame, too many and too slow.

Watching.

Liz's hands began to shake.

Her skin prickled with a familiar heat – the memory of fire under her skin, of Hellfire in her bones. She stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor.

But just as she opened her mouth to speak—

Arms wrapped around her from behind.

Liz yelped, spun— then froze.

Her mother.

April.

Warm arms. The soft scent of flour and lilac. A familiar heartbeat thudding gently against Liz's cheek as April pulled her into a tight, tender hug.

"Surprise hug," April whispered into her ear. "You looked like you needed one."

Liz's panic shattered.

She melted into the embrace.

Her knees gave slightly as she folded forward into her mother's chest, letting the arms surround her. Her fists clenched into the back of April's apron.

It was real. It was here.

She didn't need to be afraid.

April rocked her gently, like she used to. Back and forth. Back and forth.

"Just a scary dream," she said. "But it's over now."

Liz's eyes stung. But no tears came.

Only a smile.

A small, warm, child's smile.

She hugged her mother back.

And let the shadows behind the mirror slip from her mind.

…………………

The blanket was heavy, but perfectly so. Like the kind that muffled all sound when you curled up just right. Liz sank deeper into the couch, the knitted edge tucked under her chin, the warm weight draped over her like a childhood memory.

The living room was still. Light filtered through the curtains in soft beams, catching floating dust like stars. On the wall, her old drawings were pinned slightly crooked, just the way she'd left them. Crayon rockets. A fox with seven tails. A stick figure labelled "Dad" with comically big arms.

The couch creaked gently as her mother sat behind her.

Then— fingers in her hair.

Slow. Rhythmic. The kind of brushing that made her scalp tingle in the best way. April's hand moved with practiced ease, separating strands, smoothing them down with the back of her fingers.

Liz exhaled. A long, soft breath.

No armour. No Hellfire. No pressure. Just the tick of the clock and the smell of lavender from the blanket and her mother's heartbeat close behind.

"You don't have to fight anymore," April murmured into her ear. "You were just a child. You never had to be strong."

The words sank like syrup into her bloodstream.

Her chest rose and fell slower.

"I… I thought I had to," Liz whispered. "Because no one else…"

"You don't," her mother said gently. "You never did. Not then. Not now."

The blanket grew heavier. Liz's limbs softened, melted into the cushions.

The brush strokes continued, soothing, steady.

April's voice wrapped around her again – but now, beneath the comfort, another tone bled through.

Lower. Slower. Velvet-tongued.

"No more battles. No more fire. Just stay."

The words didn't feel wrong. Not exactly. They sounded the way dreams sound when you want them to last.

Liz's eyes fluttered shut.

Her legs twitched once, then stilled. She could feel her thoughts thinning – like old film being spooled back, frame by frame. The part of her that remembered pain was being gently unthreaded.

There was only this moment.

This couch. This warmth. This voice.

April began to hum.

A lullaby Liz hadn't heard in so long.

Not the melody her mother sang to toddlers – but the other one. The one for sick nights. The one that always started with "hush now" and ended before the last word.

The couch beneath her hips sank a little more than it should've. The floor beneath the rug gave a subtle thump, like a slow heartbeat. On the far wall, the clock's second hand ticked once – then paused.

Then ticked again.

Backward.

The air changed – denser, like breathing through silk. But Liz didn't notice. Her eyes were almost closed.

The walls of the house shifted slightly.

They didn't creak.

They pulsed.

Slow, steady, like lungs. Breathing in time with her heartbeat.

Liz didn't notice.

She was too far down now. Curled into herself like a thought half-forgotten. The fire in her bones? Gone. The weight behind her eyes? Gone.

Just this.

Just before.

Just home.

And far beneath the lullaby, something old and hungry smiled.

…………………

The humming didn't stop.

It coiled softly through the room, rising and falling like a tide just beneath consciousness. April's fingers moved through Liz's hair in lazy, looping strokes. The lullaby had no end. No beginning. Just the rhythm of staying still.

Liz's eyes opened slowly.

The blanket was warm. The couch didn't creak. The air smelled faintly of butter and shampoo and something older, like burnt sugar left too long on the stove.

April was still smiling.

Her hands paused just long enough to tuck a strand of hair behind Liz's ear.

And that was when Liz saw it.

Just for a second.

The eyes.

They weren't her mother's.

They were too wide. Too still. The green irises bloomed with warmth – but the pupils were wrong. Not round. Not human. They swelled, stretching into black pits, as if the face behind them had forgotten how to fake being real.

The smile held – too long. One second. Two. Three.

Then it flexed at the edges, the skin pulling just a little too tight at the corners.

April blinked.

Slowly.

Like someone remembering the gesture, not living it.

Liz sat frozen.

She didn't scream. Didn't flinch.

Her breath caught. Then held.

Something old stirred behind her eyes – like a voice underwater. A flicker of memory: the smell of scorched air. Metal fracturing. Her throat, raw from shouting. Her hands, red with fire.

She blinked.

The blanket was too tight.

Her fingers trembled.

"Mom?" she said softly.

April's head tilted. So gentle. So careful.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

The words were warm. Reassuring.

Too reassuring.

Liz didn't answer.

She looked down at her hands. The tiny fingers of a child. The ones she'd admired just an hour ago for their softness, their youth.

Now they were shaking. She didn't know why. Not yet.

But something was wrong.

Not broken. Not shattered. Just… cracked.

And sometimes, a crack was all it took.

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