Mara woke with a start.
Her apartment was silent, too silent, yet she could feel the lingering weight of the other her pressing against the edges of her mind. Every shadow seemed to twitch, as if it remembered the figure in black from the archive. The hum of her refrigerator sounded sharper than usual, each tick of the wall clock echoing in the hollow room.
She tried to shake it off. It was just a dream.
But then she noticed it.
On the counter, perfectly etched into the surface of her coffee mug, were three words:
"You should have been me."
Her chest tightened, her fingers hovering over the message as if it might burn her. She hadn't written it. She hadn't even touched the mug since she poured her coffee. Yet here it was, crisp, deliberate, impossible.
Her pulse raced. She wanted to scream, to run, to throw the mug against the wall—but something deeper rooted her in place. Fear mixed with fascination.
A low knock at the door made her jump.
"No one's coming at this hour," she whispered, her voice shaking.
The knock came again, softer this time, deliberate, measured. Mara edged toward the door, trembling. She peeked through the peephole.
No one.
But the faintest shadow slipped past the crack of her door, curling like smoke. A whisper brushed against her ear.
"I'm here."
She spun around. Nothing.
Her mind reeled. The archive, the book, the figure in black—it wasn't a dream. It wasn't imagination. It had followed her home.
By the afternoon, Mara's curiosity won over terror. She returned to the archive. Somehow, the hidden door appeared again exactly where it had the night before. Waiting, patient, as if it had never been gone.
Inside, the air was thicker than before, perfumed with the scent of old paper and something metallic she couldn't place. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the endless rows of shelves, twisting like living things.
The figure at the desk didn't look up immediately. When they finally did, their calm, measured gaze met Mara's.
"Back so soon?"
"I… I think… she followed me," Mara stammered. "The other me. She's not just in the archive. She's here. In the world."
The figure nodded slowly, expression unreadable. "Every erased self wants what it never had. The longer they wait, the stronger they grow. Some cross back willingly, some force their way. You've been warned—many originals don't survive the encounter."
Mara's stomach twisted. "Force their way?"
"They don't care about cost. They replace you, piece by piece, until the original is gone—or forgotten. And," the figure added softly, "once they start, there is no turning back."
The words landed on her like a hammer. She felt panic rising, but beneath it, a darker pull. A strange, reluctant curiosity.
"Why me?" she whispered.
"Because you've always wanted her," the figure said simply. "The life you abandoned. The confidence you buried. The fear of power you refused to embrace. She knows it. And now… she's hungry
The figure gestured toward the pedestal in the center of the archive. Mara's erased life lay open, pages glowing faintly in the dim lantern light.
This time, the glimpses were more vivid. Not just music or applause. She saw herself walking into a crowded hall with her head held high, speaking and moving with a charisma she had never possessed. She saw herself making choices she had been too afraid to take, and they worked. Every risk paid off. Every fear melted away.
And yet, as she flipped the pages, the other Mara lingered at the edges of her vision, a presence that seemed almost alive. The erased version smiled when Mara hesitated, leaned closer when Mara reached out.
The words rose from the page, soft as a caress:
"Come with me. Let me take what should have been mine."
Mara recoiled. Her hands shook violently. She wanted to close the book, to run, to slam the door and forget this place ever existed.
And yet… the pull was irresistible. She could almost feel the power coursing through her veins—the confidence, the precision, the allure of a life she'd denied herself.
A sudden movement at the far end of the corridor made Mara spin.
The other Mara stepped from the shadows, black coat brushing the floor, her smile slow, deliberate, utterly unreadable. Every step she took seemed effortless, commanding, like she owned the archive—and perhaps, Mara's world.
"You know," the figure said softly from the desk, "this is your chance to see what you've lost."
Mara backed away. "I—I don't want—"
"You already do," the other Mara interrupted, voice like ice and fire combined. "You can't deny it anymore. You always wanted this. You just never admitted it."
Mara's chest heaved. She wanted to fight, to resist, but every instinct betrayed her. She was drawn toward her erased self, even as fear screamed at her to flee.
The lights flickered violently, shadows twisting like serpents around the shelves. Mara's pulse pounded in her ears.
The other Mara raised a hand, and for a brief moment, the air between them shimmered. It was as if reality itself bent toward her erased self, acknowledging her power.
"You see what I am?" the other Mara whispered. "And what you could have been?"
Mara could only nod, mesmerized, horrified, and terrified all at once.
The lights went out completely.
When they returned, the figure at the desk was gone. Only the other Mara remained, a few steps away, watching, waiting, the faintest smile curling across her lips.
"You can run," she said, voice low, "but every step you take brings you closer… to me."