The darkness swallowed me whole. The test had begun. I blinked once and the darkness was gone. Sunlight. Warm, soft. A breeze stirring sheer curtains through open windows. The smell of cinnamon and coffee drifting close enough to touch. Blankets tangled around my legs, familiar, safe. Home. I turned my head and there he was. Malvor. Asleep beside me, lashes long against his cheek, breath steady, arm draped across my hip like he'd never let go. Shirtless. Warm. Real.
Then, soft kisses. First my shoulder. Then my neck. "Morning," he murmured, voice thick with sleep, as sweet as I'd ever heard it. "You're still here."
I smiled before I could stop myself. "So are you."
He sat up, grinning. "Be right back. Don't move."
I watched him leave, barefoot, casual, like he belonged in a place like this. Like we did.
"Princess?"
The voice echoed down the hall. Not to me. To someone else. I sat up. He came back. Carrying her. A toddler. Auburn curls spilling like firelight around a tiny face, eyes mismatched, one blue, one tan. She squealed with laughter as he spun her once, then flopped onto the bed beside me, laying her gently between us. Our daughter. My chest tightened. Breath caught.
"Say good morning to Mommy," Malvor said, kissing her curls.
"Morning, Mommy!" she squeaked, tumbling into my arms.
I caught her instinctively. Felt the weight, the warmth, the little hands clinging to my sleeve. Her hair smelled of baby soap and lemon cookies, and my eyes stung before I could stop them.
Malvor slid close, arm over both of us. "We're taking her to the pond today," he said, brushing hair back from my face. "Unless you want skating again."
"The pond," she declared with solemn authority. "The ducks are waiting."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. And the sound, it cracked something open inside me. "Of course they are," I whispered, kissing her hair.
The day unfolded like a stolen dream. Tickles and giggles. Malvor doing ridiculous voices, pretending to narrate life as a stuffed toy gone wrong. Her curls bouncing as she stomped along to invisible music.
The park in the afternoon. Sunlight golden and low, breeze threading the trees. Picnic blanket stretched beneath an oak, sandwiches abandoned for grapes and carrots. She ran to the pond, tiny fist clutching a plastic bag. "Come on! They're hungry!"
We followed. Watched as she doled out grapes to "Sir Quackers," carrots to "Lady Fluffbill," stern words for "No Nap Nigel," who'd apparently misbehaved last week.
"She is very serious about her ducks," Malvor whispered.
"She is you," I whispered back. And my heart cracked all over again.
Dinner was with my parents. I don't know how, I don't know why, but they were there. My mother: the older version of me. Same smile, same worry tucked neatly behind her eyes, hair streaked with gray. She hugged me so tightly I thought I'd break. My father: quiet, sharp-eyed, silver-haired. He kissed my temple and told me he was proud. Proud of me. Proud of this family I'd built. The table was scratched and worn, the chairs mismatched, the placemats faded, but the air smelled of tomato sauce and oregano and home.
One bite of spaghetti, and I nearly cried. It tasted exactly like it always had. Malvor sat across, laughing with my father like they'd known each other forever. Our daughter sat between us, swinging her little legs, face smeared red with sauce, grinning at everyone like joy itself. No magic. No chaos. No scars. Just life. Just home. I didn't question it.
We tucked her into bed in a room painted cream, moons fading on the walls, a lavender blanket, a worn dragon clutched to her chest. Malvor read too many voices from a book. I sang half a lullaby. She wrapped her arms around my neck, kissed my cheek, and whispered, "Night night, Mama."
I whispered back, "Good night, my little miracle."
The words felt like they belonged. Like they'd been waiting for me to say them. It hit me, her name. It rang through me like a bell. Mireya. My little miracle. I hadn't remembered until now. But the moment the name formed, it burned with truth. Mireya. The child we had prayed for, hoped for. Prayed to who? My stomach twisted.
I stood in the doorway, watching Malvor tuck her in, joy softening his whole face. Too soft. Too happy. Too whole. I smiled. But the smile trembled. Because this was perfect. But perfect had never been mine.
That night, after the lights were out and we curled into bed, I couldn't sleep. The sheets were soft. The pillows perfect. His arm wrapped warm around my waist. He pressed a kiss to my shoulder before drifting off. Everything was perfect. Too perfect.
I stared at the ceiling, heartbeat slow and steady, but wrong. I tried to remember. Not Mireya. Not the ducks or the park. Not the laughter. Before. What came before?
I searched for grief. For anger. For pain. All I found was happiness. Laughter. Kisses. Joy. No shadows. No scars. No memory of earning any of it.
My brow furrowed. Slowly, I turned, careful not to wake him. His face in sleep was peaceful. Too peaceful.
For the first time, it scared me.
His breathing wasn't just steady, it was too steady. Like the room itself was breathing for him. Like he'd never done anything but sleep peacefully beside me.
I started to wonder if he was part of the dream too.
His eyes opened. Slow. Warm. They locked with mine, and he smiled that easy grin that usually made my heart stumble. "Everything's fine," he murmured, thick with sleep. "You're safe. We're okay."
He kissed me, slow, tender. It felt… wrong. Not harsh. Not cold. Just empty. Warm lips, flat affection. Spearmint and soap instead of brown sugar and spice. All form, no soul. When his hand slid down my waist, it wasn't seeking me. It was claiming me. No teasing. No reverence. Only expectation. Routine.
My breath caught, not from desire but from the eerie wrongness of it. He didn't notice. Something told me he never noticed.
"Relax," he whispered. "You love this. Don't you remember?"
My pulse spiked. He pressed me into the bed, guiding me like it was scripted. Like he'd done it a thousand times before. But not with me. Not really.
Something inside me screamed, this wasn't him.
I didn't move. Didn't stop him. Because some part of me, the dream-version of me, had learned that pushing back only made it worse.
He kissed me harder. "There you go," he murmured, hand slipping beneath the blankets, possessive, practiced. "Just let go. You always feel better after."
I stared at the ceiling, eyes wide, waiting for it to be over. The room pulsed. Just once. Like the dream shivered, sensing me slipping away. He lowered his head to my neck. "You're overthinking again. Just be here. With me."
His weight pressed between my thighs. My chest heaved.
"Mal—" I tried, but he shushed me, kissing down my collarbone. "Let me love you."
But it wasn't love. Not this. Not him. It was a performance. A loop. A cage wrapped in warmth.
I shoved at his chest. Weak. Hesitant. "No."
His head tilted, confused."What's wrong?" he asked, too calm, too smooth.
"I said no."
He blinked, leaned in again. "You don't mean that. You always say that when you're tired."
Panic clawed up my throat. "This isn't real. You're not—"
In the darkness of the house—
"Mama!"
A cry down the hall. High. Fragile. Real. Everything stopped. I froze. Heart pounding.
The false Malvor softened instantly. "It's okay," he said gently. "She just had a nightmare. Go to her. She needs you."
The words were perfect. Too perfect. But the cry came again, "Mama!"
Instinct drowned the doubt. I slipped from beneath him, unsteady, lungs burning, and opened the door.
There she was. Mireya. Barefoot in the hall, cheeks wet with tears, clutching her stuffed dragon. "I had a bad dream," she whispered. "I dreamed you left me."
I dropped to my knees. All panic vanished. I opened my arms, and she ran into them. Soft. Warm. Trembling. I held her tight.
Behind me, the false Malvor leaned in the doorway, watching with quiet approval. "See?" he said softly. "This is your life now. Safe. Whole. Everything you ever wanted."
This is everything I ever wanted. A child. I buried my face in Mireya's curls. Even if it was a lie, Even if it wasn't real, She felt real. I held her through the night, torn between the comfort of the dream and the gnawing certainty that something inside it was deeply, terribly wrong.
I woke to laughter. To the sound of something burning in the kitchen. Morning light poured through gauzy curtains, golden and gentle. For one second, I let myself believe. I smelled the coffee. I sat up, rubbing my eyes as Malvor walked in, flour on his cheek, mug in his hand.
"Morning, babe," he grinned, setting the cup down. "Brought you your usual."
I lifted the mug, took one sip, and almost gagged. Burnt. Bitter. Somehow both scalding and lukewarm. No sweetness. No balance. I stared down into the cup like it had betrayed me. He's never made me a bad cup of coffee. Not once. Not in all the months I'd lived with him. No matter how tired, how chaotic, his coffee was always divine. Always perfect. He'd once remade an entire pot because I said it tasted tired.
And now—
This.