Lira leaned against the chipped counter of Second Life Antiques, the neon sign outside flickering in red and blue.
The Ring throbbed on her finger like a heartbeat. She had tried ignoring it all morning, but it wouldn't let her.
Every so often, it pulsed, faint warmth spreading through her palm, and the whispers returned — layered, fractured, endlessly patient.
"You… are the bearer. We remember."
She flinched every time it spoke, even now, when the shop was empty except for her.
Customers hadn't come in hours — just the distant hum of traffic and a pigeon knocking at the display window.
She glanced at the ring. It had dulled to silver for now, calm, almost… innocent.
Almost.
Her hand twitched, and she caught movement from the corner of her eye: a shadow bending toward her reflection in the shop window. She turned sharply. Nothing. Only the dim aisles between shelves of rusted teapots, cracked dolls, and yellowed books.
"You can feel it, yes?" the Ring whispered.
"The world is… awakening."
She pressed her hand to the counter. Every time the Ring spoke, it pulled her attention away from normal life.
Ordinary things — sorting donations, ringing up old clothes, balancing the cash drawer — felt surreal, almost unreal. Like the world had begun to vibrate slightly off-key.
At lunch, she walked to the corner store for a coffee. On the street, she saw a man with too-white eyes pause mid-step, staring straight at her.
He vanished behind a parked van when she blinked.
"They see you," said the Ring.
"They know."
Her heart thudded. She tried to tell herself it was stress. Post-traumatic stress. The thing from the night before — the puppet, the fight, the blood in her apartment — that was supposed to be gone. But she knew better. Something had changed.
Something had been left behind.
The whispers came again, softer this time:
"Collect. Purify. Learn."
She squeezed her fist. The air around her seemed heavier, charged — small sparks of silver light dancing along her fingertips.
"I… I don't want this," she muttered.
"No one ever chooses," the Ring replied. "But you must learn. Or be unmade."
By the time she returned to the thrift store, the late afternoon sunlight had turned to grey clouds and drizzle. The shadows between the shelves seemed deeper, denser. She realized she was seeing things others couldn't — faint outlines of movement, shapes brushing along the edges of perception, drawn toward the Ring's pulse.
A doll on the counter turned its head slightly. She froze.
"It notices," whispered the Ring.
She swallowed hard. A mundane day of sorting donations had become a dance on the edge of reality. Every step, every movement, every glance pulled her closer to something she didn't understand — but couldn't escape.
And somewhere in the city, hidden in the shadows, eyes watched her. Not human. Not alive.
Drawn by the same pulse, the same heartbeat: the Ring awakening its bearer.