The clock on the kitchen wall ticked softly, its rhythm steady against Mira's uneven breaths. She sat at the counter, both hands wrapped around a steaming mug of hot chocolate, marshmallows melting into frothy swirls. Her eyes were distant — searching for something far beyond the safety of their small, warm kitchen.
Alden watched her carefully, pretending to sip his own cup. Every flinch, every tremor in her fingers — he memorised it all.
When she looked up, he smiled gently. "Better?"
She nodded slowly, the faintest shimmer of calm settling across her face. "Mhm… thank you."
He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead and kissed her temple. "Try to get some rest, love. I'll join you in a minute."
She hesitated, her gaze flickering toward the window as if the night outside still breathed her nightmares. Then she turned and walked back to their bedroom, clutching the cup in both hands like a lifeline.
Once the door closed, Alden exhaled — a long, measured breath. He stood still for a moment, the silence of the house pressing against him like fog. Then, moving with quiet precision, he crossed the hall and entered his study.
He flicked on the lamp. A warm, golden glow spilled over his desk — neat rows of patient files, handwritten notes, and a single leather-bound journal locked by a brass clasp.
He unlocked it.
On the first line of the page, in neat, deliberate handwriting, he wrote:
Subject: Mira. Episode #3.
Time: 03:14 AM
Duration: Approx. 4–5 minutes
Trigger: Unknown (possible sensory stimulus during REM sleep)
Behavioral response: Disoriented. Speech fragmented — recurring imagery: "House… tree… cold… fog… blood… night."
Physical reaction: Tremors, resistance to grounding, self-protective retreat.
Post-episode state: Cling-seeking behaviour. Visual hypersensitivity to metallic objects (scissors).
Observation: Fear response escalating. Memory recall seems involuntary. Possible breakthrough.
He paused. The pen hovered above the paper, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he added one last line beneath the others — smaller, almost hesitant.
Note: She said "blood" again. Twice this time.
Alden leaned back in his chair, staring at those words as if they might rearrange themselves into meaning. His fingers tapped the desk — once, twice — then stopped.
He closed the journal and locked it. The sound of the clasp snapping shut echoed faintly in the room.
For a moment, he just sat there in the glow of the lamp, the edges of his reflection faintly visible in the darkened window — calm, composed, devoted.
Yet behind that calm, something flickered.
Not fear.
Not curiosity.
Something far more dangerous.
He looked toward the closed bedroom door and whispered under his breath, almost tenderly—
"We're getting closer, Mira. Just a little more."