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Elira Winters hadn’t slept in three nights.
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She sat curled up in the corner of her bedroom, blanket tangled around her legs, eyes fixed on the flickering candle beside her window. The rest of the house was asleep. Her mother’s quiet breathing filtered through the thin walls. The hum of the streetlight outside pulsed like a distant heartbeat.
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But Elira didn’t blink.
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Not yet.
Not again.
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The last time she fell asleep, her best friend Maya broke her leg falling down the stairs. The time before that, her neighbor’s cat went missing—only to be found in the park, drowned. Coincidences, the doctors said. Stress. Trauma.
But Elira knew the truth.
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She had dreamed it—every broken bone, every scream, every shadow behind the eyes of the people she loved.
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And now, every time she closed her eyes, something bled.
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She rubbed her hands over her arms, tracing the faint marks that seemed to appear after each nightmare—thin red lines, like cuts from invisible thorns. They didn't hurt. Not really. But they burned in a way she couldn’t explain.
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Her phone buzzed beside her.
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[Maya]: You okay? Heard about the accident at school. Call me. Please.
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Elira stared at the message for a long time. She didn’t answer.
She didn’t know how to explain that the boy who fell from the third-floor railing—the one who hit his head and stopped moving—was someone she had seen the night before. In her dream. Falling. Screaming. Eyes wide with silent terror.
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Just like all the others.
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A sudden cold breeze brushed the back of her neck.
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She turned.
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The window was closed.
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Her candle flickered violently, its flame pulling sideways—as if drawn by an unseen breath. The air in the room changed. It became heavier. Sharper. A shiver ran down her spine.
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Then, she heard it.
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A voice. Whispering. Soft. Right behind her.
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“Elira…”
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She stood up so fast the blanket fell to the floor. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. “Who’s there?” she whispered.
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No answer.
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But the shadows in the room shifted, just slightly, like something moving beneath the surface of water.
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Her vision blurred.
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No—not blurred. The room was melting.
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The walls bled into smoke. The candlelight stretched unnaturally long, twisting like fingers. The floor beneath her gave a sudden lurch, and Elira fell—
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—but not onto her floor. Onto cold stone.
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She was no longer in her room.
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She was standing in a hallway of mirrors.
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Each mirror was cracked. Some shattered entirely. Others reflected versions of herself she didn’t recognize—some crying, some laughing, some with blood dripping from their eyes.
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She tried to turn back, but there was no door. Just endless mirrors and the faint echo of footsteps in the distance.
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And then he appeared.
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A boy, tall and shadow-cloaked, stepped out from one of the reflections. His eyes were silver—glowing faintly, like moonlight trapped in storm clouds. His voice was calm, but it carried weight.
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“You shouldn’t be here yet.”
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“What is this place?” Elira asked, her voice trembling.
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“The edge,” he said. “Between waking and bleeding.”
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Her heart pounded. “Who are you?”
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He didn’t answer right away. He stepped closer, and something about the way he moved—fluid, careful, watchful—made her both trust and fear him.
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Then he said quietly, “You’re dreaming. But not safely. You’re a Seer, Elira. Your dreams can… alter things.”
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Her stomach dropped. “So I’m not crazy.”
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“No,” he replied. “You’re in danger.”
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Before she could speak again, the mirrors began to hum. One by one, they shattered—exploding outward in flashes of crimson light.
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The boy grabbed her wrist. “Wake up!”
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“I— I don’t know how!”
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“You have to bleed.”
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“What?!”
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A flash of pain.
Her wrist, pricked by something sharp.
Blood dripped down her palm. The red thread unspooled from her skin.
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And then—
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She woke.
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Gasping. Sweating. Crying.
Back in her bed.
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But the cut on her wrist was real.
And across the wall of her room, in faint red letters, a message had been written:
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“You saw him. Now they’ll come.”
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