The thought hit me like a stone to the chest. Months. I had been in Arbor for months. But this, this wasn't Arbor. Arbor. Who was Arbor? The house? That didn't make sense. That couldn't be real. This wasn't real. The floor of my thoughts shifted, slippery, ready to crack—
"Mommy!" Mireya's voice rang down the hall.
I looked up, and there she was, standing in the doorway with wild curls, flour dusting her pajamas like snow. A wooden spoon brandished like a sword. "Come help! Daddy is not good at this."
From the kitchen: Malvor's laugh. "Hey!"
Despite myself, I smiled. Soft. Sad. Sweet.
I set the coffee mug down like it might bite me again and padded barefoot toward the chaos. The kitchen was a battlefield. Burning pancakes on the stove, syrup smeared across the counter like a sticky confetti explosion. Mireya reached for me immediately. "Help me flip the next ones? He keeps making them weird shapes."
"They are dinosaurs," Malvor said indignantly.
"They're blobs," Mireya whispered, dead serious, as though betrayal had never cut deeper. I picked up the spatula, slid behind her, arms wrapped around her small frame as we lifted the pancake together. The heat of the stove. The giggle of my daughter. The absurd, homey chaos of breakfast. It all looked right. But the taste of the coffee lingered on my tongue like ash. Deep down, I knew. This wasn't home.
Malvor handed me a to-go cup, thankfully not made by him this time, and kissed my forehead. "I've gotta head to work."
Work? My brow furrowed. "Wait… what do you do again?"
He grinned, adjusting his wrinkled tie in the mirror. Cheap suit, peeling seams. Just for a flicker, I saw him differently, dark silk, gold cufflinks, a grin sharp as broken glass. Then it was gone. Polyester again.
He kept talking. "Those ones and zeroes don't write themselves. Big launch coming up. Stress levels at a solid eleven." He pantomimed typing in the air. A programmer. Of course.
I nodded slowly. "Right. Okay."
"I'll take Mirrie to preschool on the way."
My daughter burst in, a cape swirling behind her sparkly, mismatched shoes. "I am the princess and the superhero today!"
Malvor bowed dramatically. "Your majesty."
I knelt, tying her shoes, my fingers steady while my mind churned static. I kissed them both goodbye, waved as they drove away in a silver sedan I didn't remember owning. I closed the door. The silence pressed in.
The laptop waited on the table, lid half-open like it had been there all along. I sat down. Because I was a writer. Wasn't I? The screen blinked to life. Not a novel. Not the stories that set my soul on fire. Just proofreading. Technical copy. Dry blog drafts about dental tools. I read a paragraph three times and remembered nothing. Each word was dust. Clicking through folders, I searched for me. For anything real.
Then I saw it. A black folder with no name, tucked into neat rows of nothing. My hand hovered. Then I opened it. Inside: one document. Her Life, Rewritten. The words pulsed when I clicked it. They breathed. Real. Strange. Familiar.
It was a story. About a woman who lived in a lie so perfect she forgot what she had lost. A woman with runes carved into her skin. A house that loved her. A god who held her through nightmares. My breath hitched.
The world flickered. Just once. Like a lightbulb before it bursts.
Suddenly, the phone rang. Shrill. Jarring. Too loud, too real. I answered with shaking hands. "Hello?"
The voice on the other end crackled, both close and impossibly far. "Is this Mrs. Theóskakó? Your daughter is not feeling well. She's in the nurse's office asking for you."
My throat went dry. "My… my daughter?"
"Yes, ma'am. Mireya. Mild fever. She says she wants her mom."
"I, I'll be right there." The line went dead. I stood frozen, phone still clutched tight, as the room thinned around me. Colors drained. Corners bled static. Like the dream knew I'd caught it and was pulling tighter. But I shoved my feet into shoes, grabbed keys, and moved like a mother on autopilot. Because my daughter needed me.
The drive was a blur of perfect, soft roads. Trees swaying without wind. Houses too neat, too new, too calm. The preschool looked painted in pastels. Teachers smiled with porcelain cheer. Mireya waited in the nurse's office, cheeks flushed, curls plastered damp to her skin. When she saw me, she leapt from the cot.
"Mama!"
I caught her in my arms, and she clung like she'd been lost for years.
"You don't look sick," I whispered.
She giggled, voice small but sure. "I feel better now. 'Cause you're here."
My heart clenched, split, bled. I held her tighter. "Let's go home," I whispered. Even though I knew. This wasn't home.
We drove in silence at first. Mireya hummed in the back seat, her legs swinging, her spoon-sword clutched like treasure. My mind kept drifting, back to the document, back to the taste of ash-coffee, back to the static flicker at the edges of everything—
"Mommy, look!" she squealed. "That cloud looks like a dragon!"
I jumped. My grip on the wheel tightened. "A dragon?"
"Yes! But a nice dragon."
"Of course," I said.
A few seconds passed before her voice floated forward again."Can we paint when we get home? And make cookies? And play the animal game?"
"Maybe, baby," I murmured. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
"Mama?"
"Yes?"
"Are you listening?"
Her eyes met mine in the mirror. Big. Bright. Trusting. Real. Just like that, I felt it, the pull. That perfect lie tugging me back into place. Because what kind of mother walks away from her child? Even one who might not exist. Back home, the kitchen was spotless. Too spotless. The recipe already waiting. The oven already warm. An apron already tied neat around my waist. Though I didn't remember tying it.
Mireya hummed beside me on a stool, sticky hands dropping chocolate chips into the bowl. "Cookies, cookies, cookies," she sang. "I like mine gooey. Like Daddy makes 'em!"
I stirred the dough slowly. Methodical. My mind miles away, caught on that black folder: Her Life, Rewritten.
Caught on toothpaste kisses. Bad coffee. On how the girl beside me was named Mireya, miracle, but carried no scars, no shadows, no price.
"Mama," she chirped. "Can I lick the spoon?"
I didn't answer. The runes pulsed in my memory. The scars. The ache of something real. Something earned.
"Mama." Sharper.
I blinked. Looked down. Her wide eyes were still sweet. Still childlike. But too sharp. Watching me too closely.
"You're not listening," she whined.
I forced a smile. "Sorry, baby. Just thinking."
"We're baking cookies," she said, almost accusing. "Together. You love this."
"Right," I whispered. "Of course I do."
I handed her the spoon and turned for the tray. Behind me, her humming went louder. Off-key. Flour spilled across the floor. "Oops," she said, without a shred of apology. My skin prickled. "Mama," she said again. Closer now. "You're not happy."
My hand froze on the oven door. When I turned, she wasn't just my daughter anymore. Her fists clenched at her sides. Flour on her cheeks looked like ash. Her curls too stiff, like paint dried wrong. "You're not supposed to be sad here," she said flatly. "You're ruining it. You should smile more. Before the marks, you smiled more."
I breathed slow. "It's okay to be sad sometimes, baby. Even in good places."
"No," she snapped, voice sharp and hollow. "You're not supposed to want to leave."
The illusion cracked. The spoon clattered to the ground. She didn't flinch.
"Sit down, Mommy," she said. "We are not done yet."
But I didn't flinch either. I smiled. A slow, dangerous thing. "Oh no, little girl," I whispered, my voice velvet and iron. "I've met the true Lord of Chaos. Held him while he broke. Danced with him through madness. Loved him through it."
I stepped forward. The floor flickered under my feet like bad signal. "You think you scare me?" Another step. The puppet shrank. "You think this is power? You're nothing. Our real daughter will be terrifying in the best way. Born of chaos and fire and impossible love. She'll ride warhorses, bite her uncles, and bend illusions before she learns her letters."
I leaned down, eye to eye with the thing that wore Mireya's face. "You're just a distraction."
I turned my back. The scream split the air. Not a child's scream, a banshee's howl, walls melting into shadow, black ichor dripping from the ceiling. Cabinets burst. The floor cracked wide. But I walked. "You're not real," I said. "He is. We are."
The front door appeared, flickering at the edges. I reached for it.
"MAMA!" the creature shrieked behind me.
My hand closed on the handle. A voice slid inside me, soft as lullaby: You'll forget her face.
I froze.
You'll forget her laughter.
You will never have this. Never have a child.
A heartbeat of grief. Of doubt. Because I knew it was true. The moment I stepped through, Mireya, the curls, the sticky fingers, the way she called me Mama, would vanish. A miracle I never truly had. My eyes burned. My chest split open with the ache of it. But I didn't let go. I turned the handle. Stepped forward and let the lie die behind me.