I don't know how long I stand in that twisted hallway clutching the tiny pink butterfly hair clip. My daughter's clip. Warm from her scalp, still smelling faintly of the jasmine oil I combed through her hair that morning. It feels like the last real piece of her I might ever touch.
The hospital is silent around me, but it isn't an ordinary silence. It's thick, mindful, listening. A silence with intent.
I try to breathe normally. I fail.
My ghost husband's voice still echoes in my head like an infection I can't shake.
"You cannot reach her without me."
"She followed your footsteps."
"She belongs to me."
I squeeze my eyes shut. No. NO. That's not true. That's not real. My daughter is mine. My flesh. My life. My everything.
But his presence still lingers in the air, a coldness clinging to my skin.
I turn to move, to run, to find the next hallway or doorway or shadow that might lead me to her—
—and I freeze.
Because someone is watching me.
Not a ghost.
Not a shadow.
Someone human.
At least… he used to be.
A figure stands at the very end of the corridor—partially obscured by darkness, but not enough for me to miss him.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dressed in dark clothes.
Head slightly lowered.
His face hidden.
Breathing too quietly to be normal.
I know that posture.
I know that silhouette.
My stomach flips violently.
It's him.
The stalker.
The same one who used to appear near my old apartment.
The one who stood in the corner of the grocery store staring at me without blinking.
The one I saw outside my hospital shift a year ago, leaning against a lamppost as if waiting for something—waiting for me.
The one I spotted in reflections, in crowds, in doorways where he didn't belong.
The same stalker whose presence I tried to rationalize, to ignore, to pretend was just paranoia.
He steps forward slightly. The overhead light flickers enough to reveal the shape of his jawline, the line of his neck.
Not close enough to show his eyes.
Not far enough to look harmless.
My hand shakes around the hair clip.
"Why are you here?" I whisper. My voice barely leaves my throat.
He doesn't answer.
"Say something," I force out, louder, angrier. "Damn it—talk!"
His breathing shifts—just a hint louder. A pull. A slow inhale that ripples through the corridor.
I take a step back, my spine pressing into the peeling wall.
He takes one step forward.
A deliberate step.
Measured.
Predatory.
"Don't," I warn, lifting the flashlight like a weapon.
But the light sputters, dying into a weak pulse. Of course. Why would anything real stay stable in a world that's collapsing?
I tighten my grip on the metal.
"Who are you?" I whisper.
Still nothing.
But he keeps moving—slow, confident, patient. Like he's walked toward me a hundred times before.
He steps into a broken beam of flickering light.
Enough for me to see his face.
And my blood goes cold.
It's him.
The stalker from my world.
The one who followed me months before the Boundary Land ever touched my life.
The one with the hollow cheeks, the dark eyes, the scar on his jaw. The one who always stood too still. The one who never spoke.
The one I knew was wrong.
Not quite human.
Too quiet. Too focused. Too present.
His expression is empty, but his eyes—
His eyes are dead.
Not lifeless.
Dead.
Just like my ghost husband's.
I stagger backward until I hit the corner of the hallway, heart pounding like a trapped animal inside my chest.
"What are you?" I whisper.
And he smiles.
A slow, stretched, unnatural curl of the lips—too wide, too smooth, too controlled.
Not a human smile.
Not a living one.
He tilts his head, studying me like prey. His movements are jerky, corrected halfway through—as if he's mimicking how humans move but hasn't learned the details.
"Oh my God," I breathe. "You're not human."
He finally speaks.
His voice is wrong. Broken. Echoing through layers of static.
"I watched you," he whispers.
My skin crawls.
"I watched you when the worlds were still separate."
He takes another slow step forward.
"I watched you before you even saw the Boundary."
My breath catches in my throat. "Why?"
He answers without hesitation.
"To see if you were ready."
I feel the world tilt.
"Ready for what?"
He reaches out a hand—long fingers, pale skin, too cold-looking.
"For him," he whispers.
My knees nearly buckle.
"No…" I shake my head violently. "No, this isn't happening. You can't—"
His voice cuts through the corridor like a blade.
"You were chosen long before you stepped into his land. Long before you saw the abandoned house. Long before the roads turned wrong. Long before the sky shifted."
I clutch my head, as if pressing hard enough could make this stop.
"You're lying," I manage. "You're trying to break me."
He shakes his head slowly.
"I was sent to guide you."
My pulse stutters.
"Guide me into what? Madness?"
He doesn't blink. "Into fate."
I want to scream.
Instead, I run.
I shove off the wall, sprinting blindly down the distorted hallway, my heartbeat pounding louder than my footsteps. The world warps as I run—doors stretching, floors bending, lights exploding into white bursts.
A shadow detaches from the wall ahead of me.
Him.
The stalker.
He's suddenly there—too fast, impossible.
One moment I'm running, the next he stands directly in front of me.
I skid to a stop so abruptly my knees give out and I nearly fall. The flashlight drops, rolling across the cracked floor.
He doesn't touch me.
He doesn't have to.
"You cannot run from what is already inside you," he whispers.
I gasp for air.
"What… what do you want?"
His smile stretches a bit wider.
"For you to understand."
I shake my head, trembling. "Understand WHAT?"
"That he never appeared by chance."
I freeze.
My ghost husband.
The groom.
The one who claimed me.
The one whose presence I felt long before I knew him.
The stalker steps closer, the air turning icy.
"He saw you first," he murmurs.
My chest tightens. "Saw me?"
"Before you were born."
A scream catches somewhere in my throat.
"No… that's not possible. That's NOT POSSIBLE—"
"He knew your breath before you took it," the stalker whispers. "He knew your shadow before you cast it. He watched your every step from the boundary between worlds."
My vision spins.
"No," I whisper. "NO, STOP—"
"You were always meant to walk his path."
He leans forward, his dead breath brushing my cheek like frost.
"You felt him even as a child, didn't you?"
I freeze.
Because I did.
I remember the nightmares as a little girl.
The man with no eyes waiting in the corner of my room.
The figure standing outside my childhood window, unmoving.
The whispers in the dark that always said the same word:
"Bride."
Oh God.
I stumble back, shaking uncontrollably.
"You were the first sign the worlds were merging," he continues. "And your fear fed the boundary. Strengthened it. Gave him a way to reach you."
"No…" I choke out.
But part of me knows—
It's true.
The nightmares.
The shadows.
The feeling of being watched.
The stalker following me months before everything fell apart.
Everything was a warning.
No—
Not a warning.
A summons.
"How long…" My voice cracks. "How long have you been watching me?"
He tilts his head again. "Since your first heartbeat."
I feel like the air has been punched out of my lungs.
"And my daughter?" I whisper. "Did you watch her too?"
His expression softens in a strange, unsettling way.
"She was born shimmering," he says. "Her soul touched both worlds. A rarity. A gift."
My stomach knots. Sickening dread washes over me.
"What do you mean… shimmering?"
He steps back slightly, as if giving me space to absorb the truth.
"She was visible to us the moment she entered the world," he murmurs. "A child of two realms. A beacon."
"No…" I shake my head. "She's normal. She's human. She's—"
"She is pure," he cuts in. "Untainted. Perfectly balanced between light and shadow."
"No!" My voice rises into a scream. "She's MY child! Not his! Not yours! NOT THIS WORLD'S!"
He watches me quietly, the smile fading.
"That is why he wants her," he says. "Not to harm her. To preserve her. To claim her future."
"What future?"
His eyes darken.
"She is meant to be the key that binds the worlds… or breaks them."
My legs collapse. I fall to my knees, tears spilling freely.
"Where is she?" I sob.
He kneels in front of me.
"Close," he whispers. "So close you could feel her breath if you listened."
I choke, gripping the front of his shirt. "Tell me where she is!"
He leans in slowly, carefully, as if savoring the moment.
"She is walking the old path between realms," he whispers.
"With him."
My heart shatters.
"No…" I cry. "No, no, no—"
He lifts a cold hand, brushing my cheek.
"You can still save her," he says gently.
"How?" I plead.
"By understanding why he chose you."
I look up through tears, eyes burning.
"Tell me," I whisper. "Tell me why."
He inhales deeply—
—and for the first time, I hear emotion in his voice.
"Because you are the only mortal he has ever loved."
My blood turns to ice.
"And the only one he cannot control."
He leans closer.
"That is why he fears you."
I stare, stunned. "Fears… me?"
He nods.
"You are his weakness."
My breath catches.
"And your daughter," he whispers, "is yours."
A cold shock ripples through my body.
Because he's right.
He stands slowly, looking down at me.
"Now get up," he says softly. "She is calling for you."
The hallway behind him shifts—stretching open into a long, endless shadowed corridor.
A path.
A way.
A choice.
I wipe my tears roughly, pushing myself to my feet.
"What are you?" I ask him one last time.
He pauses.
And for the first time, he answers honestly.
"I am the shadow he sent to watch you," he says. "But somewhere along the way…"
His voice softens.
"…I became yours."
The corridor breathes.
The lights flicker.
A distant, familiar cry echoes from the darkness.
My daughter.
My heart surges painfully.
Without thinking, without breathing, without fear—
—I run toward the sound.
And the stalker watches me go.
---