By the time Iria left her apartment again, the sun had climbed higher, washing the street in a pale, forgiving light. It made the world look ordinary. Safe. As if nothing had gone wrong at all.
She almost believed it—until her wrist twinged beneath the sleeve of her jacket.
The words on her laptop followed her out the door, echoing with each step.
*This has happened before.*
She needed confirmation. Something external. Evidence that didn't originate from a version of herself she no longer trusted.
The café on the corner was already busy when she arrived, the air thick with the smell of coffee and toasted bread. Iria ordered on autopilot and took her drink to a small table by the window, positioning herself so she could watch the street without looking like she was watching the street.
Her phone, freshly charged, lay heavy in her pocket. She hadn't turned it on yet. Part of her was afraid of what it might contain—call logs, messages, proof that she had been someone else for hours at a time.
She wrapped both hands around her cup and tried to breathe.
"Excuse me."
The voice was gentle. Male. Unfamiliar.
Iria looked up.
The man standing beside her table was in his late thirties, maybe early forties. He wore a navy coat despite the warming day, his hair carefully combed, his expression hesitant in a way that made him seem more minor than he probably was.
"Yes?" she said cautiously.
His face brightened with something like relief. "I wasn't sure it was you. You look… different. But I thought—"
"I'm sorry," Iria interrupted, her pulse quickening. "Do I know you?"
He laughed softly, shaking his head. "No. I mean—yes. Well. You saved my daughter."
The café noise dulled around them, as if someone had turned down the volume of the world.
"I—what?" Iria said.
The man gestured to the empty chair across from her, silently asking permission. When she nodded—too stunned to refuse—he sat, leaning forward as if afraid she might disappear.
"Last night," he said. "At the construction site near Ridgeway. My little girl—she wandered off. I looked away for one second, and she was gone. It was dark, and—" His voice wavered. "I was panicking. Everyone was."
Iria's hands tightened around her cup.
"There was a drop," he continued. "A temporary trench they'd dug. She fell in. Hit her head. She was crying, but I couldn't get to her fast enough. And then you were there."
Her heart hammered painfully against her ribs.
"I'm sorry," she said again, more firmly this time. "I think you're mistaken."
His brow creased. "No. No, I'm not. You knew exactly what to do. You climbed down without hesitating. You told me to stay back, to keep her talking. You tied something—your jacket, I think—around her arm so she wouldn't panic when you lifted her."
Iria swallowed hard.
"I don't go near construction sites," she said, the words sounding thin even to her own ears.
The man smiled sadly. "That's what I thought you might say."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "I took a picture," he said quickly, as if afraid she might stop him. "Not of her—of you. I wanted to remember your face."
He turned the screen toward her.
The image was grainy and poorly lit. Taken at night. A woman crouched in a trench, her hair loose, her face half-turned toward the camera. Mud streaked her clothes. Her hands were braced firmly against the earth as she lifted a small child upward.
The woman was Iria.
Her breath left her in a rush.
She stared at the image, every detail burning itself into her mind. The angle of her shoulders. The focus in her eyes. She didn't look frightened. She looked competent. Certain.
Like she belonged there.
"That's not—" she began, then stopped.
Because it was.
Her wrist throbbed sharply, as if remembering before she could.
The man lowered his phone gently. "I wanted to thank you," he said. "You disappeared before the paramedics arrived. I didn't even get your name."
Iria forced herself to meet his gaze. "Is your daughter…?"
"She's fine," he said quickly. "A mild concussion. They kept her overnight. She keeps asking about you. About the woman who told her stories about the moon to keep her calm."
The café felt suddenly too warm.
"I talked about the moon?" Iria asked.
"Yes." He smiled faintly. "You said it was working hard last night. That it needed help."
A shiver ran through her.
"I don't remember any of this," she said quietly.
Something shifted in his expression—not disbelief, but concern. Real concern.
"I was afraid you might say that," he admitted. "You seemed… different. Focused. Like you were following instructions, only you could hear."
Iria's stomach twisted.
"I'm glad she's okay," she managed. "Truly."
He nodded, standing. "I just wanted you to know—you made a difference. Whatever you're dealing with… You saved my child."
He hesitated, then added softly, "You're a miracle."
The word landed wrong. Heavy. Unwanted.
After he left, Iria sat frozen, her coffee untouched, her hands shaking. The image burned behind her closed eyes—the version of herself she didn't know, didn't remember, didn't control.
A version that went where she shouldn't and did what she didn't know how to do.
A version that the moon seemed to recognize.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, her fingers trembling as she powered it on.
Notifications flooded the screen.
Missed calls. Unsent drafts. Location data.
Proof.
Iria closed her eyes, heart pounding.
The man had thanked her.
But all she could think was that someone—*something*—had used her.
And she had no idea how many times it had already happened.