The path beneath Arun's feet was made of fractured mirrors, each step cutting his shadow. Above him, the sky was a bruised violet, stars moving in reverse.
He touched a shard—it showed his home, but empty, lifeless.
"Every step forward," a distant voice warned, "is a step further from what you were."
He found a lantern hanging from a crooked post. Its light was faint, but warm.
The Witch appeared, her eyes hollow. "This is all that's left of your past. Feed it, or it dies."
Arun placed a torn photograph inside—the only image left of his childhood home—and the flame grew, burning silver.
Behind him, the mansion itself began to move—walls folding, doors scraping against the sky, following him like a predator on silent legs.
He ran, but wherever the road turned, the house was closer.
Its windows blinked like eyes.
As he reached a bridge of crystal, a voice rose from below.
It was his sister's voice, calling his name.
He knelt, heart pounding. "Is it you?"
The voice laughed—a low, twisted echo.
"Only what you want to hear."