Edward hadn't eaten with his family in days. Tonight, though, he dragged himself into the dining hall. The food was simple, but the warmth of voices almost felt normal again.
Arnold cracked a dry joke about the generator. Their father told a story from the old days when phones still worked. Even Maria was quieter than usual, smiling but not throwing too many barbs. For a moment, Edward let himself think—maybe everything was okay.
But then Case 33 crept into his mind.
The smiling one.
The one who could blink.
He looked at his mother, at the curve of her lips. Then at Arnold. Then at Maria. In his mind's eye, the same smile stretched across every face at the table. Too wide. Too long. His fork froze halfway to his mouth.
"Are you okay, sweetheart?" his mother asked gently.
Edward forced a nod.
"Yeah, I'm okay," he muttered, turning to his father.
His father leaned in, voice low. "You sure, son?"
That was when Edward noticed it. His father's eyes. Wide, unblinking. The seconds ticked by in his head. Forty… forty-one… fifty-three. Only then did the eyes finally close. A blink.
His chest tightened.
Maybe the stress was too much. Maybe he was imagining things. But his mother said softly, almost too softly, "Maybe the stress has reached him."
"Stop being so serious all the time," his father snapped back. "Like your mom."
Her face flushed. "How dare you—"
"You see?" his father barked, throwing his hands up.
And then, strangely, the tension broke into laughter. All of them laughing together—his father, his mother, even Arnold—while Edward sat rigid, counting. Counting to fifty-three again. His mother's eyes stayed wide, shining in the light. Fifty-one… fifty-two…
Blink.
Edward's breath caught.
Across the table, Maria tilted her head, studying him.
"Brother," she said with a sly smile, "what are you counting for?"
Edward swallowed hard. "Nothing."
Maria didn't look away. She held her eyes open until his throat went dry, then blinked slowly, deliberately, at fifty-three. Her smile curled into something almost inhuman.
"Are you okay, brother?" she whispered.
His chair screeched back. He muttered something, anything, and fled. That night he dragged a blanket into his parents' room, insisting on sleeping beside them. His parents teased him, ridiculed him, but at least he felt safe. Safe away from Maria.
But sleep gave him no mercy. Each time he opened his eyes in the dark, she was there. Standing by the doorway. Grinning, unblinking. And then, like clockwork, the blink came. Every fifty-three seconds. All night long.
Until Edward stopped counting.