The reflection in the window was gone by morning.
Esme stood frozen in front of the glass, her palm still pressed against it, exactly where she'd left it hours ago. Dawn light filtered through, weak and gray, showing her only what should have been there—her own face, hollow-eyed and ordinary. No hand pressing back. No head tilting when hers stayed still.
She pulled her hand away slowly. The glass was warm where her palm had been, warmer than it should be. A perfect handprint remained in the condensation, but as she watched, a second print appeared beside it—fingers splayed wider than hers, pressed from the other side.
Her breath caught. She blinked, and it was gone.
Esme hadn't slept. She sat curled in the corner of her bed, knees pulled to her chest, the blanket wrapped around her like armor. Her eyes stayed fixed on the window long after the night faded into pale, indifferent dawn. Her body was still, but inside, something was churning. A low vibration, like a tuning fork struck in her chest. A memory too fractured to name.
She could hear her parents moving downstairs—careful footsteps, whispered conversations. They were trying to be quiet, trying to let her sleep. They didn't know she'd spent the night watching her reflection move without her, didn't know about the humming that had finally stopped just before sunrise.
The house felt different in daylight. Smaller. Like the walls had crept inward while she'd been gone. Everything was exactly where it should be—her teenage books on their shelves, her clothes in their drawers, even the half-finished friendship bracelet she'd been making for someone whose name she couldn't remember. But it all felt like evidence of a life that had happened to someone else.
Downstairs, the muffled clink of cups and the low murmur of her parents' voices reminded her this was "home." But it felt like a set. Familiar objects arranged for a person who no longer existed.
She stepped into the hallway. The carpet was soft under her bare feet—too soft after years of... what? She couldn't remember what she'd walked on, only that it hadn't yielded like this. Her body moved out of habit now, muscle memory guiding her to the bathroom, knowing which floorboard creaked outside the linen closet. But her mind floated a few feet behind her, detached. Watching herself move through this space like she was watching someone else.
In the bathroom mirror, she studied herself properly for the first time since the hospital. The overhead light was harsh, unforgiving. Skin pale and drawn tight over bones that showed too clearly. Hair hanging in loose, tangled knots that her mother would have never allowed before. But the eyes... they didn't belong to the girl who had disappeared. These eyes had depth that hadn't been there before, like looking into water and seeing no bottom.
They belonged to someone who had seen something. Someone who had endured.
As she brushed her fingers over the scar beneath her eyebrow, a flicker of something pulsed behind her eyes—a flash of water that wasn't water, hands pounding on glass that wouldn't break, the dull hum of machinery that breathed like something alive. Fluorescent lights that never turned off. A voice saying her name wrong, over and over, until she forgot how it was supposed to sound.
She gripped the sink edge and blinked it away. The porcelain was cool under her palms, real and solid. She turned on the tap and splashed cold water on her face, trying to anchor herself in the present.
When she looked up, for just a moment, her reflection's eyes were closed while hers were open.
Downstairs, her parents looked up as she descended. They were sitting at the kitchen table, coffee cups between them like a barricade. Laura rose instantly, her chair scraping against the floor. "Sweetheart—do you want something to eat? Or tea? Or—?"
"No," Esme said, her voice still too quiet, like she was afraid of taking up space.
Laura's hands fluttered uselessly before settling on the back of her chair. Michael offered a tentative smile that didn't reach his eyes. Dark circles shadowed his face—he hadn't been sleeping either. "You slept through the night."
Esme didn't correct him. She sat across from them at the kitchen table, the same chair she'd always sat in. Muscle memory again. The wood was worn smooth where her hands had rested for years of family dinners. She could feel their fear and relief twisted together like twin vines, choking each other. They didn't know how to talk to her. She didn't blame them.
The silence stretched until Laura couldn't bear it. "I could make pancakes. You used to love—"
"I'd like to go outside," Esme interrupted.
Laura stiffened, her knuckles white where she gripped the chair. "Maybe later. The hospital said you need rest, and Detective Renn mentioned—"
"I won't go far."
"Esme, honey, we just got you back. We can't—" Laura's voice cracked.
Michael placed a hand over his wife's. His wedding ring caught the morning light. "Where would you go?"
Esme looked toward the window. The world outside looked flat, like a painting. "Just... outside. I need to remember what air feels like."
Michael exchanged a long look with his wife, some silent conversation Esme couldn't decode. Finally, he nodded slowly. "Alright. Just stay close to the house. And take your phone—" He stopped, realizing. She didn't have a phone anymore. Her old one was probably in an evidence box somewhere.
"I'll stay close," Esme said.
Laura made a sound that might have been protest or pain, but Michael squeezed her hand and she stayed silent.
The neighborhood hadn't changed. That made it worse.
The front door opened onto a world that had continued without her. Children rode bikes past cracked sidewalks, training wheels rattling over familiar bumps. Sprinklers turned lazily in brown front lawns, the smell of wet grass and hot concrete mixing in the morning air. A dog barked somewhere, the sound sharp and real and jarring.
Mrs. Chen from next door was watering her roses. She looked up, saw Esme, and the hose slipped from her fingers. Water sprayed across her shoes, but she didn't seem to notice. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air.
Esme raised a hand in what might have been a wave and kept walking.
The world felt too bright, too loud. Colors seemed oversaturated—the red of a stop sign hurt to look at, the blue sky pressed down like a weight. Every sound had an edge to it. She found herself counting steps, the way she used to count... something. Counting had been important. One-two-three-four, turn. One-two-three-four, turn. But turn where? The memory slipped away like water.
She wandered toward the edge of the wooded park two blocks from home, her feet finding the path without conscious thought. How many times had she walked this route? To school, to friends' houses, to nowhere in particular when she needed to think. But now each step felt like stepping through photographs of someone else's life.
She passed the Hendersons' house with its cheerful yellow shutters. Their daughter Katie had been in her class. Was probably in college now. Seven years. The number felt impossible, like trying to hold smoke.
As she passed the cul-de-sac where the old swing set used to creak in the wind, something flickered across her vision—a brief image of a corridor that wasn't there. Not memory. Not hallucination. Just... overlay. Metal floor. No ceiling. Light coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. Her feet kept moving on the sidewalk, but for a moment she felt the air change—clinical, dry, dead. Recycled through filters that hummed with that same endless vibration. And then she was back. On asphalt. Sunburnt. Real.
She stumbled, caught herself. A woman walking her dog crossed to the other side of the street.
At the park entrance, she stopped. The woods beckoned, shadows between trunks looking like doorways. She didn't go in—just stood at the tree line, breathing in the scent of pine and wet soil. The shadows between trunks felt like open mouths, ready to swallow her whole. Or maybe to speak secrets she wasn't ready to hear.
There had been a place like this. Not a forest, exactly. But enclosed. Green. Lit from somewhere you couldn't see, so there were no real shadows, no place to hide. A place they were allowed to walk, sometimes. Supervised. She could remember someone walking beside her. Tall. Silent. A presence more than a person. They never spoke, but she could feel their attention like heat from a fire.
She pressed her hand to the bark of a tree. The texture was rough, real, nothing like the smooth walls of... where? The memory fractured before she could grasp it.
For a second, her palm didn't feel bark—it felt metal. Cold. Gridded. Buzzing faintly with electricity that made her teeth ache.
She blinked, and it was bark again.
But the grooves in the wood now formed a symbol she couldn't read. Or maybe remembered too well. Three interlocking circles with a line through the center. Her hand jerked back.
"Are you still watching me?" she whispered to the shadows.
No answer. But she felt it again—that low vibration in her chest. Like an echo of the humming, but coming from inside her now. The trees seemed to lean in, listening.
A branch cracked behind her. She spun, heart hammering, but it was just a jogger on the path, earbuds in, oblivious. He glanced at her and picked up his pace. Something in her face, maybe. Something that made people want to look away.
She turned and went home, counting steps. One-two-three-four. Don't turn. Keep walking. Don't look back at the shadows that felt too deep, too hungry.
Her parents were on the porch when she returned, trying to look casual. Laura's relief was palpable—she practically vibrated with it. "How was your walk?"
"Fine," Esme said, and the word felt like a lie even though nothing had happened. Nothing visible, anyway.
That evening, Detective Miles Renn returned.
Esme watched from her bedroom window as his unmarked car pulled up to the curb. He sat there for a full minute before getting out, staring at the house like it might tell him secrets. She could see him preparing himself, adjusting his tie, checking his notebook. Building armor out of routine.
Laura ushered him in like he was an old friend, her voice bright and brittle. "We didn't know if we should've reached out again, but—she's barely talking to us. She went for a walk today, alone, and we thought... We thought maybe you could..."
"I understand," Miles said softly. "I'm happy to check in."
Esme heard their footsteps on the stairs, her mother's nervous chatter fading as she returned to the kitchen. A soft knock on her door. She was already in her desk chair, back to the door, watching the shadows dance across the floor as the sun began to set. The shadows were behaving normally now. Moving only when the trees outside moved. She'd been checking.
"Hey, Esme," Miles said softly from the doorway. "Can I come in?"
She didn't move, but didn't say no. He took it as permission.
He sat on the edge of her bed, careful to keep space between them. The mattress creaked under his weight—a normal sound that somehow made her relax a fraction. He smelled like coffee and aftershave, nothing like the antiseptic smell that clung to her memories.
"I wanted to ask if you'd be okay answering a few questions. Nothing official. Just... to help me understand."
Esme finally turned her head. Her eyes landed on him—not cold, not scared. Measured. Evaluating. "You're not going to believe me," she said.
"Try me."
She looked down at her hands. They were her hands, familiar but strange. The nails had grown back—when had she lost them? Why? "There were others. With me. I think."
Miles leaned forward slightly, careful not to move too fast. "Other missing kids?"
She shook her head. "Not kids. People. Adults. Different ages." She paused, searching for words. "We weren't... collected the same way."
"What do you mean?"
Esme's fingers found the edge of her sleeve, worrying the fabric. "Some had been there longer. Some came after. Time was..." She trailed off, frowning. "Time was different there."
"Do you know their names?"
A pause. Her fingers stilled. Then she whispered: "Trent. Claire. Leo. Sabine."
Miles wrote the names down, his pen scratching across paper. The sound was too loud in the quiet room. She watched him try to keep his expression neutral, but she caught the slight furrow of his brow. He was already running the names against missing persons reports in his head. Finding nothing.
"They were... in rooms. Small ones. Glass walls. Like aquariums." The words came easier now, like a dam breaking. "We could see each other but couldn't hear. Couldn't touch. Just watch."
Miles frowned. "Were you being held somewhere? Like a facility?"
Esme didn't answer directly. "The glass was special. You could see through it, but it showed you things that weren't there too. Reflections of places you'd never been. People you'd never met. Or maybe—" She stopped, shook her head. "Maybe people you would meet. Will meet. Time was different," she repeated.
"What else do you remember about this place?"
"White. Everything was white except the observation room. That was dark. They watched from there." She pulled her knees up to her chest. "We weren't always alone. Sometimes they made us listen. Sometimes... they made us dream."
Miles's pen stilled. "They made you dream?"
"Shared dreams. All of us, dreaming the same thing at the same time. Building something together in our sleep." Her voice had gone distant, almost dreamy itself. "A map, maybe. Or instructions. I could never remember clearly when I woke up."
He leaned forward slightly. "Who did this? Who's 'they'?"
Esme's eyes glazed. She was looking through him now, seeing something else. "A man. I don't remember his name. Maybe he never told us. Maybe names didn't matter there."
Miles softened his voice. "Can you describe him?"
Esme stared at a speck of dust floating in the dying sunlight. It danced and spun, free in a way nothing had been in that place. "Tall. Gray hair, but not old. Hands that were always cold, even through gloves. His voice made the walls feel thinner. He didn't yell. He didn't need to. When he spoke, you listened with parts of yourself you didn't know existed."
"Did he hurt you?"
"Not... not the way you mean." She uncurled slightly, one hand reaching out to catch the dust mote. It danced away. "He was curious. We were... data. Variables in an experiment we couldn't understand."
Miles exhaled slowly. "And this... place. Do you remember where it was?"
Esme's lips parted, then closed again. She looked out the window where the first stars were beginning to appear. "No. But I know I wasn't supposed to leave. None of us were. The walls weren't just to keep us in. They were to keep something else out."
He nodded slowly, letting the silence settle. Then: "You said you weren't collected the same way. How were you taken?"
"I wasn't taken," Esme said simply. "I was invited."
The words hung in the air. Miles felt the temperature in the room drop, though the windows were closed.
"By who?"
"Her." Esme's voice changed, softened, almost reverent. "There was a woman. She wasn't part of it. She came from somewhere else. Somewhere..." She searched for words. "Somewhere more real than here."
"Someone who helped you escape?"
"She was watching me long before I knew. Through mirrors. Through water. Through the spaces between seconds." Esme's eyes were bright now, focused on something beyond the room. "Her name was Yashan."
Miles blinked. "Is that a real person?"
Esme tilted her head, and for a moment, she looked ancient. "Not like you think. But she was real. She still is. She's the reason I could come back. The only reason any of us could."
"Any of you? The others escaped too?"
"I don't know." The brightness in her eyes dimmed. "I hope so. But the door she opened... it only stayed open for a moment. And coming through changed us."
There was a gravity to the way she said it. Miles didn't press. He closed his notebook and stood, his knees protesting. "Thank you, Esme. This helps."
She didn't look away from the window. "They'll be looking for me."
"Who?"
"The ones who run the rooms. And..." She paused, seemed to reconsider. "And the others."
"The other captives?"
"No." Her reflection in the window seemed to shift, just slightly. "The ones who didn't need rooms. The ones who were already perfect for what he wanted."
Miles felt a chill run down his spine. "Esme, if you're in danger—"
"I'm always in danger now," she said simply. "But it's okay. Yashan is still watching. Through the glass. Through the spaces. She won't let them take me back."
"How do you know?"
Esme finally looked at him directly. "Because she needs me here. We're not done yet."
After Miles left, Esme could hear her parents' hushed conversation with him downstairs. Voices raised just enough for her to catch fragments: "—psychiatric evaluation—" "—trauma response—" "—completely understandable after—"
They didn't believe her. She hadn't expected them to.
Later that night, Laura found her daughter sitting on the floor in her room, her back against the wall, knees drawn up, eyes open wide and unblinking. She'd been there for an hour, Laura had been checking.
"Esme?" she said softly, afraid to startle her.
Esme turned her head slowly, like she was swimming up from deep water.
Laura's voice wavered. "Are you alright? Do you need anything?"
Esme gave a tiny nod. "I remembered something."
Laura knelt beside her, careful not to touch. She'd learned that Esme would flinch from unexpected contact, her whole body going rigid like she expected... what? "What is it, sweetheart?"
Esme's voice dropped to a whisper. "They told us if we left, we wouldn't come back the same. That we'd be broken in ways that couldn't be fixed."
Laura swallowed hard. "You're home now. That's all that matters. We'll get through this together."
Esme studied her mother's face like she was trying to memorize it. "You look older."
"Well, seven years—"
"No. Older than that. Like the waiting aged you more than time." Esme reached out slowly, telegraphing the movement, and touched her mother's cheek. "I'm sorry."
Laura's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, honey, no. None of this is your fault."
"I know," Esme said. "But I'm still sorry. For what's coming."
Before Laura could ask what she meant, Esme stood and walked to her bed. "I'm tired now."
Laura wanted to push, wanted to demand answers, wanted to wrap her daughter in blankets and never let her go. Instead, she stood and walked to the door. "I love you, Esme."
"I know," Esme said again. "That's why this will be hard."
But that night, in the quiet between her parents' whispers downstairs, Esme lay still in bed and whispered those names again: Trent. Claire. Leo. Sabine.
She could see them now, clearer than before. Not memories—visions. Trent with his missing fingers, tapping codes on his glass wall. Claire who never stopped singing, silent behind her barrier. Leo who drew the same three interlocking circles again and again in the condensation of his breath, each time slower, more careful, as if trying to get it just right. Like it mattered. Like it was the only thing that mattered. Sabine who had learned to sleep standing up, eyes open, watching.
Then Leo stopped drawing. He looked up, through the glass, through the years, through whatever separated then from now. Right at her.
He mouthed something.
She couldn't hear it—but she understood it. The knowledge dropped into her mind like a stone into water.
Not a word. A command. "Don't trust the door."
They were still there. She could feel them, distant but present, like radio signals from far away. Still in their rooms. Still waiting.
She wasn't supposed to leave.
And if she had... maybe someone else had taken her place.
In the hall outside her room, the floorboard creaked. Once. Twice. The pattern she knew meant someone was standing there, shifting their weight, uncertain. But when she looked, the hallway was empty.
Except for the wet marks on the floor.
At first, she thought it was just water. A spill from the bathroom, maybe. Her mother taking a late shower. But the puddles were too deliberate, too evenly spaced. And they led from the bathroom to her door in a path that made her stomach turn.
Footprints.
She stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the carpet. The prints glistened faintly in the hallway light. Water pooled in the impressions, too much water for anyone coming from their small bathroom. And the shape...
The toes were too long, splayed at angles that hurt to look at. The arch too high, like something that had never learned to walk on flat ground. They stopped just at her door, pooling there, then vanished as if whatever made them had simply ceased to exist at her threshold.
In the puddle beneath the footprints, for just a second, a face—not hers—reflected back. Sharp eyes. White hair braided like thread. Watching. Then gone, leaving only the warped reflection of the ceiling light.
Esme didn't scream. Just watched.
Her voice didn't shake. It hadn't, not once since she returned. Even when she should have cried, shouted, begged for understanding. It was like the place had drained her of urgency too, left her with only this terrible calm.
Her chest tightened, the hum returning faintly beneath her skin—soft, rhythmic, like something answering from a distance. Like a phone ringing in an empty house, waiting for someone to pick up.
She stepped back inside and shut the door, her hand on the knob longer than necessary. The metal was cold. Too cold. She could feel frost forming under her palm, spreading in delicate patterns across the brass.
Then, almost mechanically, like following instructions she didn't remember receiving, she turned the rug so it no longer faced the hallway. A small protection. A useless one. But it made the humming quieter.
She sat on the edge of her bed, hands folded in her lap, and waited. For what, she wasn't sure. But she knew it was coming.
And only then, she allowed herself to whisper: "I know you're here."
The humming stopped.
The silence that followed was worse.
She didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just listened. To nothing. And somehow, it was listening back.
From somewhere—the walls, the air, her own bones—came a single sound. A drip. Like water falling into water. But there was no water in her room. No leak in the ceiling. No glass to spill.
The doorknob was still cold under her palm. Getting colder.
And in that cold, that silence, that impossible drip of water that wasn't there, Esme understood.
She hadn't escaped.
She'd been allowed to leave.
In the silence, Esme remembered something else.
She hadn't been the only one Yashan invited.