The floor was real.
That was the first thing I confirmed.
Hard wood. Smooth in places, splintered in others. My palms stung where I'd caught myself, and my shoulder sent up a sharp reminder that gravity and I were still not on speaking terms.
I pushed myself upright with a groan.
"Great," I muttered. "Still alive."
That earned me a sharp intake of breath from somewhere to my left.
"She's awake," a girl said.
I looked up.
The room was dim but warm, lit by a low fire crackling in a stone hearth. Shadows stretched across the walls, bending and shifting like they were trying out different shapes just to see which one felt right. Shelves lined the space from floor to ceiling, crowded with jars, bundles of dried plants, coils of twine, and objects that looked like they'd been collected more out of curiosity than usefulness.
Standing a few steps away was the girl.
She looked around my age, maybe a little older, with dark hair pulled back into a messy braid that had definitely seen better days. Her clothes were practical—boots, worn trousers, a jacket with frayed cuffs—but there was something about the way she stood, alert and tense, like she was bracing for an argument she already knew she was losing.
Behind her, near the door, stood a boy.
He looked younger than her, or maybe just more tightly wound. His arms were crossed so hard I thought his shoulders might fold inward, and his expression was stuck somewhere between panic and fury.
"What were you thinking?" he snapped, eyes never leaving me. "You brought her here?"
"I didn't have time to think," the girl shot back. "She was about to get eaten."
"That's not the point!"
I cleared my throat.
Both of them froze.
"Oh," I said weakly. "Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt whatever this is."
The girl winced. "Right. You."
I tried to stand fully and immediately regretted it. Pain flared through my shoulder and hip, and I swayed, catching myself on the edge of a table.
The girl moved without hesitation, stepping forward and grabbing my arm to steady me.
"Careful," she said. "You fell pretty hard."
Her grip was firm and warm.
Very real.
"Thanks," I said. "For… the saving. From the nightmare monsters."
She gave me a crooked smile. "You're welcome."
The boy groaned. Loudly.
"Oh, this is great," he said. "She's thanking you. Fantastic. We are so dead."
I blinked at him. "Sorry—who's 'we'?"
"You," he said flatly. "And us. When she gets back."
"Who's 'she'?" I asked, already pretty sure I didn't want the answer.
The boy looked like he was deciding whether to scream or cry.
"The witch," he said.
The word landed heavily in the air.
I laughed.
It came out a little hysterical, but still.
"No," I said. "Nope. Absolutely not. Magic isn't real."
The girl let go of my arm slowly. "You crossed through a boundary."
"I fell into a hole," I corrected. "Then I touched a bubble."
The boy's eyes widened. "You touched it?"
"Yes," I said. "It was gross."
The girl stared at me. "You weren't supposed to be able to see it."
"That's what everyone keeps saying."
The boy ran a hand through his hair. "This is bad. This is really bad."
"Hey," I said, trying to sound reasonable even though my heart was still racing. "I didn't ask to be here. I would love to leave. Right now. Immediately."
The girl hesitated.
The boy snapped his fingers. "No. Absolutely not."
She shot him a look. "I can't just send her back."
"Yes, you can," he hissed. "You already broke three rules by pulling her through. If she stays here and the witch finds out—"
"She was going to die," the girl said quietly.
That shut him up.
For a moment.
"She was not our responsibility," he said finally, but there was less conviction in his voice now.
I looked between them. "Okay. I'm missing some context."
The girl sighed. "I found you in the forest. Two creatures were tracking you. You wouldn't have made it another ten seconds."
"Good to know," I said. "Always nice to be on a timer."
"I pulled you through," she continued. "I brought you here because… well. This is the closest safe place."
The boy snorted. "Safe until she gets back."
"When is she getting back?" I asked.
He grimaced. "Soon."
That word had way too many meanings.
I rubbed my face with my hands, wincing when my shoulder protested. "Okay. So. Let me see if I have this straight. I'm not supposed to be here. I crossed into… wherever this is. Monsters exist. Bubbles exist. You can teleport. And there is a witch who is going to be very mad that I'm standing in her living room."
"Yes," the girl said.
"Correct," the boy added.
I dropped my hands. "Cool."
Silence stretched.
The fire popped softly.
The girl glanced at the doorway, then back at me. "You're hurt. You should sit."
I sat, because my body agreed with her even if my brain didn't.
She grabbed a cup from a nearby shelf and filled it from a kettle I hadn't noticed before. She handed it to me.
"Drink."
I eyed it. "Is this going to knock me out or curse me or turn me into a frog?"
"It's water," she said. "With herbs."
"That does not narrow it down."
She rolled her eyes. "Just drink it."
I did.
It tasted warm and sharp, like mint and something bitter that made my tongue tingle. The dizziness eased a little, though the ache in my shoulder stayed.
The boy paced. "She cannot stay."
"She can't go back tonight," the girl replied. "The boundary won't open again until morning."
I stiffened. "Excuse me?"
The girl met my eyes. "The barrier reacts to cycles. Light. Dark. It's not… flexible."
"That's very inconvenient," I said.
The boy stopped pacing and pointed at me. "You sleep. You leave at first light. Before she gets back."
The girl hesitated.
I noticed.
"So," I said slowly, "what happens if she gets back before then?"
They exchanged a look.
The kind that answers a question without words.
My stomach dropped.
"I don't want to get you in trouble," I said.
The boy laughed, sharp and humorless. "Little late for that."
The girl sighed and gestured toward a narrow doorway. "There's a back room. You can rest there. Just—don't touch anything."
I stood carefully, following her down the short hall. The room she showed me was small and plain. A cot. A blanket. A faintly glowing stone set into the wall.
I lay down fully clothed, staring at the ceiling.
My body hurt.
My mind wouldn't stop.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to my own breathing.
The stone above me wasn't smooth. Faint grooves marked its surface, shallow lines worn by time or hands or something in between. I traced them with my eyes until they blurred together.
My shoulder ached dully now. Not sharp anymore. Just persistent. Like the pain had decided it could afford to wait.
From somewhere beyond the thin wall, I heard voices.
Low. Tense.
The girl and the boy again.
"I'm telling you, this shouldn't be possible," the boy said, his voice tight. "She shouldn't have seen it."
"I know," the girl replied. "That's why I couldn't leave her."
"That makes it worse."
There was a pause.
"She stayed calm," the girl said eventually. "Even after everything."
I almost laughed.
Calm wasn't the word I would've chosen. But I'd learned a long time ago that panicking out loud only made things worse.
Silence followed, heavier this time.
I rolled onto my side, pressing a hand against my ribs.
The pull was still there.
Quiet. Persistent.
Not demanding.
Waiting.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Ignore it.
That worked about as well as ignoring hunger.
The house settled around me. Wood creaked softly. The fire popped once, sending shadows sliding across the walls.
I sat up.
Slowly, carefully, I stood and tested my balance. My body complained, but it held. I cracked the door open just enough to look into the hall.
Empty.
The main room lay beyond, lit only by the fire. The shelves loomed in shadow, jars catching faint glints of light. Everything looked calm.
Safe.
That should have been enough.
I padded forward, my steps quiet. The kettle still sat where it had been earlier. My cup was washed and set aside.
Someone had taken the time to clean up after me.
That thought hit harder than I expected.
They hadn't treated me like a threat. Or a problem to be contained. Just… a person who'd fallen into something she didn't understand.
"I didn't ask for this," I whispered.
The pull stirred.
Not here.
I turned slowly, letting the sensation guide me.
Toward the door.
My stomach tightened.
"This is a bad idea," I told myself.
The pull tightened in response.
Of course it did.
Footsteps sounded suddenly.
I froze.
The girl stepped into the room, arms full of bundled herbs. She stopped short when she saw me standing there.
"Oh," she said quietly. "You're up."
"Yeah," I said. "Couldn't sleep."
She nodded, like she'd expected that. "You should rest."
"I know."
We stood there awkwardly for a moment.
"You're really sending me back in the morning," I said.
"If we can," she replied. "If nothing interferes."
That answer didn't help.
I studied her face in the firelight. She looked tired. Not scared—just worn.
"You saved me," I said. "You didn't have to."
She shrugged. "I did."
"That's not an explanation."
She smiled faintly. "It's the only one I've got."
The pull surged.
Her eyes flicked to my chest. "You feel it."
I hesitated, then nodded. "Like something's waiting."
Her jaw tightened. "That's not ideal."
"You're saying that like it's familiar."
"It is," she admitted. "Just not usually this fast."
That settled something in me.
If I stayed, I'd worry them. Complicate things. Bring consequences down on people who didn't deserve them.
If I left…
I might finally understand what was calling me.
She shifted her weight. "If the witch tells you to sleep, you should sleep."
"I will," I said.
She didn't look convinced.
"Thank you," I added. "For everything."
Her expression softened. "You're welcome."
She turned and disappeared down the hall.
I waited until another door closed.
The house went quiet again.
The pull surged.
Decision made.
I went back to the cot and sat down slowly, the pull easing just enough to let me breathe again. The room felt smaller now, like it had quietly shifted while I wasn't looking. I lay back, staring at the ceiling again, listening to the quiet settle in around me. My thoughts drifted in uneven loops, circling the same questions without landing anywhere solid. My body felt heavy, but not tired in the normal way. More like the world had pressed pause without telling me first.
I closed my eyes.
Then opened them again.
Something about the silence had changed.
I rolled onto my side, wincing as my shoulder complained.
The pull was still there.
Subtle, but persistent. Like someone tapping the inside of my ribs, reminding me they were waiting.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Ignore it.
That worked about as well as ignoring a fire alarm.
Footsteps echoed faintly from the main room.
Voices.
The girl's first, low and tense. Then the boy's, sharper, worried.
And then—
Another presence.
I didn't hear the witch arrive.
I felt her.
The air shifted, warm and gentle, like a change in weather rather than a sound. The pull in my chest stilled suddenly, not gone, just… quieter. Like it was listening.
Curiosity won.
I sat up carefully and padded toward the doorway, stopping just short of being obvious.
The witch stood near the hearth.
She was older, but not in the fragile way I'd expected. Her hair was silver and worn loose down her back, her face lined softly by years of smiling rather than frowning. Her robes were layered in muted earth tones, and her hands were stained green and brown, like she'd been gathering plants.
Which, judging by the bundles slung over her shoulder, she had.
She looked… kind.
That unsettled me more than anything else.
The boy was speaking quickly. "—she came through the boundary. I told her we shouldn't bring her here but—"
"I know," the witch said gently.
Her voice was calm, steady, like she'd already sorted through the problem and decided it wasn't a disaster.
The girl shifted her weight. "I couldn't leave her. The creatures were already tracking her."
The witch nodded. "You did the right thing."
The boy's shoulders dropped. "We're not in trouble?"
The witch smiled. "Not for saving a life."
I leaned a little too far forward.
The floor creaked.
All three of them turned toward me.
"Oh," the witch said, eyes brightening. "You're awake."
I froze, then sighed. "Yeah. Sorry. I didn't mean to eavesdrop."
She waved a hand. "You fell into another world and nearly died. You're allowed to be curious."
That helped. A little.
She studied me for a moment, her gaze warm but sharp, like she was seeing more than just what was obvious.
"You're hurt," she said.
"Only emotionally," I replied automatically. Then winced. "And physically."
She chuckled softly. "Come. Sit."
I stepped fully into the room.
Up close, she smelled like herbs and smoke and rain. Familiar smells. Comforting ones.
"I'm Althea," she said. "This is my home."
"I'm Mara," I said. "I… don't think I'm supposed to be here."
"No," Althea agreed gently. "You aren't."
That should have scared me more than it did.
She knelt beside me, hands hovering near my shoulder. "May I?"
I nodded.
Her touch was warm and careful. The pain dulled, not gone, but easier to breathe through.
"Nothing broken," she said. "You were fortunate."
"That's one word for it," I said.
She smiled. "You crossed into a neighboring realm. One that brushes against your world in places where the boundary thins."
"The bubble," I said.
"Yes," she said, pleased. "Most people never see it. Fewer still pass through."
"I didn't mean to," I said. "I wasn't looking for anything. I just… fell."
"I believe you," Althea replied without hesitation. "Accidental crossings are rare. But not unheard of."
The fire crackled softly between us, a steady, grounding sound. I watched the flames for a moment, trying to make sense of everything she wasn't saying.
"Long ago," Althea continued, "the worlds were not so carefully separated. They brushed against one another more freely. In some places, they overlapped entirely."
Her gaze drifted toward the hearth, unfocused now, as if she were looking at something far older than the fire itself.
"Creatures wandered," she said. "Some by instinct. Some by curiosity. Some because they sensed opportunity. Power flowed freely then, without the limits we know now. It created wonder."
She paused.
"…and disaster."
The word settled heavily in the room.
"People forget," she went on, "that chaos is not always loud. Sometimes it arrives slowly. Quietly. One small crossing at a time."
"So the boundaries were reinforced," I said.
"Yes."
"By who?" I asked.
Althea looked back at me, her expression calm but unreadable.
"Those who survived the chaos," she said simply.
That answer felt intentionally incomplete.
I waited, but she didn't elaborate.
"And now?" I asked.
Althea folded her hands in her lap. "Now those boundaries are wearing thin again."
My stomach tightened. "Why?"
She considered that for a long moment. "Because nothing that is held under strain forever remains unchanged. Because time erodes even the strongest walls. And because some things do not forget being pushed away."
The fire popped, sending sparks upward. They vanished before they reached the ceiling.
"Am I in danger?" I asked quietly.
"Not here," Althea said at once.
"And when I leave?"
She didn't soften the truth. "That depends on whether what noticed you decides to keep watching."
I let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "That's… reassuring."
She reached across the small space between us and placed her hand over mine. Her touch was warm, steady.
"You are safe for tonight," she said. "That matters."
It did.
I nodded, even though unease still coiled in my chest.
"You didn't do anything wrong," she added. "You didn't force your way across. You didn't open a door that was sealed."
"Then why me?" I asked.
Althea smiled faintly. "Sometimes the answer to that question takes time."
The girl shifted near the doorway, relief visible in the way her shoulders loosened. The boy, still tense, nodded once as if committing the moment to memory.
"You're injured," Althea said, rising smoothly to her feet. "And exhausted. Whatever questions you still have can wait until morning."
I opened my mouth to argue.
Instead, my body betrayed me by yawning.
She smiled, amused but gentle. "Sleep."
She guided me back to the small room, her hand light at my shoulder. She tucked the blanket around me with surprising care, like she'd done this a hundred times before.
"You're welcome here," she said softly. "But rest comes first."
The door closed behind her with a quiet click.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
For a while, everything was still.
The house breathed around me, wood settling, fire dimming. The strange light from the stone didn't change, but it no longer felt anchored to anything I understood.
Time felt strange in this place.
It didn't move forward so much as drift, stretching and folding in on itself. Minutes felt heavy. Seconds slipped away unnoticed.
My body was tired, but my thoughts refused to settle.
Eventually, the quiet changed.
Not abruptly. Just enough that I noticed.
Somewhere beyond the walls, the forest whispered.
I sat up slowly.
The feeling in my chest had grown stronger, no longer content to wait. It pressed insistently now, tugging at me like a current beneath still water.
I didn't question it this time.
I slipped on my shoes, eased the door open, and peered into the main room.
Empty.
The fire was low. The shelves loomed in shadow. No voices. No movement.
The door to the outside glowed faintly with moonlight.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I wasn't sure to whom.
Then I opened the door and stepped out into the night.