I pushed into the room and froze.

Someone was sitting in the chair by the fireplace.

“Hello, Kira.” The voice was familiar, impossible.

The figure stood, stepping into the light.

Dark hair. Grey eyes like mine. Features I knew from old photographs.

My mother.

But that was impossible. My mother was dead. Had been dead for ten years.

“No,” I whispered, backing toward the door. “No, you’re not real. You can’t be—”

“I’m not your mother, child.” The woman’s voice ...