(Julia’s POV)

The rain began somewhere over the county line, soft and relentless against the glass, like someone whispering the forbidden. I leaned my forehead against the window, watching the wipers remove the haze, only for it to reappear seconds later.

"You all right back there, miss?" the driver inquired. Jeff was in his mid-forties, with thinning hair and a subtle fragrance of peppermint and motor grease.

I straightened. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He chuckled nervously. “Just making sure. You’ve been quiet for a while… talking to yourself, too.”

Had I?

I turned my gaze to the window again, tracing the fog my breath had left behind. “Habit.”

He didn't press on. Smart man.

The road stretched eternally ahead, a bleak ribbon lined by weathered skeleton trees. Outside the fogged-up window, the world was still—quiet, abandoned, nearly forgotten. We were nearly two hours out of Manhattan, meandering through Connecticut's back roads. I'd taken this route before, more times than I could count. Each trip felt like peeling back a layer I’d buried under newer sins.

I hadn’t bothered confirming the exact town with Jeff—the driver I’d booked under a false name this time. I just gave him the same destination as always: a quiet pocket on the outskirts of New Haven. Far enough to disappear without being missed. Close enough to still hear the echo of everything I’d left behind.

“Are you from around here?” Jeff asked, tossing the question over his shoulder like it didn’t matter.

I didn’t answer right away, eyes fixed on the gray blur of the horizon. After a moment, I said, “I used to be.”

He glanced at me through the rearview mirror, waiting.

“In another life,” I added, my voice barely audible enough.

Jeff grunted, a sound that could mean understanding—or just acknowledgment. I wasn’t sure which.

He had no idea.

No idea that the house we were driving toward had once been my refuge... and my cage. No clue that every mile chipped away at my nerves, threading together dread with something colder—memory.

Still, I’d told him to avoid the toll roads.

“Why the detours?” Jeff asked, breaking the silence.

I shrugged, fingers tightening around the edge of the seat. “Detours give me space. Space to think... to unravel. To remember.”

He hummed faintly, as if filing it away.

The windshield wipers brushed methodically while the rain fell outside, turning the world a dark shade. The streets blurred past in stillness, with the stormlight producing eerie reflections on the wet tarmac. Shadows stretched and faded beneath the rhythm of the rain, and we soon arrived at my destination.

Jeff pulled up in front of a weathered duplex sandwiched between a defunct deli and a laundry facility, with a rusted sign wobbling on its final bolt. The structure appeared to have forgotten what it meant to be lived in—its paint peeled in brittle curls like shed skin, and the windows were covered with grime and age. The porch slouched forward, twisted and worn, as if burdened by secrets too heavy to bear. The whole place breathed with the damp, heavy scent of rot and memory.

peeling like old scabs, windows dirtied with dust and rain.

“This it?” Jeff asked, glancing sideways at me through the rearview mirror.

I nodded, sliding the door open and stepping out into the damp, heavy air. “Yeah. Stay nearby, but don’t wait. I’ll call when I’m ready.”

He gave a slight nod, already calculating. "I'll be here when you need a ride back to Manhattan."

I gave a forced smile, more out of habit than comfort, and shut the door behind me. The driver's taillights vanished into the mist as I approached the front door, keys cold and heavy in my pocket.

With a reluctant sigh, the lock finally gave way. I pushed in.

The house smelled of wet plaster, stale cigarettes, and something vaguely medical — possibly antiseptic. The air felt dense, as if it had not been disturbed in months. Dust motes fluttered in the slivers of light that filtered through dusty windows, catching on a cracked lampshade, a fraying curtain, and the tattered upholstery of a drooping couch. I sank down onto the couch, the springs protesting under my weight, the fabric coarse and threadbare against my thighs.

The room lay in a murky hush, lit only by the fractured daylight seeping through the bent slats of a broken blind. Dust floated in the still air, catching faint glimmers like ghosts suspended in time.

I let my eyes fall shut.

And the memories surged—jagged, uninvited.

We were six, knees knocking in the hallway closet, hiding from our mother’s moods.

Jane held my hand. “Pretend we’re statues. Statues can’t be hit.”

She played brave. But her fingers trembled.

She was scared too.

But I was always the problem.

At eleven, Jane made the honor roll. I forged a signature on a test I hadn’t even taken.

Outside the principal’s office, I watched our mother smooth Jane’s hair and say, “Julia just needs more structure.”

Two identical faces were reflected in the glass. But only one of us was worth saving.

At fifteen, our first party.

Jane wore blue. I wore black.

She sparkled. I imitated her laugh, her tilt of the head—like maybe I could borrow her light.

Later, I kissed the boy she liked. Not because I wanted him, but because I needed to feel like I could take something.

It didn’t stop.

College: She got the scholarship. I got caught with a stolen keycard.

She was praised. I was warned.

Everywhere we went, she was the control. I was the malfunction.

That’s the thing no one tells you about being a twin.

Sameness is a lie. The world always picks a favorite.

And once it does, it never lets the other forget it.

The buzz of my phone dragged me back.

I opened my eyes.

It rang again, sharp and insistent.

I stared at the screen, reluctant to let go of the storm still raging in my head.

Nathan.

Of course.

I grabbed the phone, crossed the room in a few brisk steps, and stopped by the window. The glass was cold beneath my fingers as I pressed the phone to my ear.

“Miss me already?”

There was a beat of silence. Then—

“Where the hell are you, Julia?”

His voice was low, tight, controlled in that way that meant he was trying not to lose it.

“Out,” I said, my tone flat. “Just taking a little walk down memory lane.”

“You disappeared. You didn’t tell anyone where you were going.”

“You’re not my keeper.”

“You can’t just vanish—not like this. Not now. Especially not with everything going on—”

I laughed, cold and sharp. “What? You mean Jane forming some holy alliance with Andrew now? Is that what’s got you sweating?” Silence. He was pissed. I could hear it in his breath, fast and shallow on the other end.

“You should’ve told me you were leaving,” he said finally, voice lower now, more careful. “You need to be monitored. The baby—”

“Don’t.” I cut him off sharply. “Don’t you dare weaponize the baby just because you’re losing control.”

“This isn’t about control—”

“It always is.”

“Julia, just listen—” “No. You listen.” I pressed my forehead to the cool, splintering wood of the window frame, trying to slow the pounding in my skull. “You think just because you’ve cleaned up well and memorized enough therapy-speak, that you can play puppeteer with my life? His silence on the other end spoke louder than any retort.

I smiled without warmth. “You say it’s about the baby, but it’s not. It’s about you losing your grip on both of us. Me slipping through your fingers, and Jane coming after you with all she’s got.”

“Julia,” he said carefully. “This isn’t you talking. You’ve gone off your dosage, and—”

“There it is,” I snapped. “The diagnosis. The fallback. The excuse. Maybe you should ask yourself why I stopped letting you monitor my dosage. Why I stopped trusting you with any part of me.”

“You need help—”

“No,” I hissed. “I need time. I need space. And you need to stop pretending you didn’t like it better when I was broken enough to need you.”

He was quiet for too long again.

“Where are you?” he asked again in a low but stern voice.

I laughed, short and sharp. “Too far for you to reach.”

And then I hung up.

The silence afterward was delicious. Brief. A drop of stillness in a room that suddenly felt like it was holding its breath.

I turned from the window and sat back on the couch, only now realizing just how dark it had become.

Holding my breath, I turned from the window and sank back onto the couch. The room had swallowed the last of the daylight; shadows pooled in every corner, heavy and thick like spilled ink.

Then, a faint creak broke the silence.

The floorboards whispered beneath slow, deliberate footsteps somewhere deeper in the house.

My heart slammed against my ribs, every nerve screaming in alarm.

Another creak—closer now, dragging the silence with it.

I froze, eyes straining into the darkness beyond the doorway.

From the gloom, a shadow peeled away, sliding forward—silent, slow, and disturbingly deliberate.