The door didn't open any farther.
It stayed half-breath away from crossing a line no one in that house dared to cross anymore.
Rayan stood frozen, fingers hovering near the handle like it might burn him. The air pressed in on his ears, loud with Mira's uneven breathing and the small, terrified hush of a child trying not to cry.
He could leave.
He should leave.
His body screamed for movement—forward or back, anything—but his mind was trapped in a fog where words felt heavier than bricks.
"I—" His voice cracked and died.
Mira didn't scream.
That was worse.
She stared at him with eyes stripped of shock, stripped of tears, stripped of hope. The look of someone who had already survived the worst and was preparing for it to happen again.
Isha's face was buried in her shoulder. One tiny hand clutched Mira's sleeve so tight the knuckles had gone pale.
Rayan stepped back.
Just one step.
"I won't come in," he said, slow and careful, like placing glass on a cracked table. "I just… heard."
Silence.
Mira's lips trembled. Not fear—anger, sharp and quiet.
"Go," she whispered.
The word wasn't loud.It didn't need to be.
Rayan turned away immediately.
The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded like a verdict.
The night stretched.
Rayan sat on the floor of the small room, back against the bed, knees pulled up, staring at his hands like they belonged to someone else. They wouldn't stop shaking.
Why does my chest feel like this?
He pressed his palm against it, feeling a wild, unfamiliar ache.
Images flickered—too fast to catch.
A child crying.A plate shattering.A woman flinching before the sound even came.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
"Not mine," he muttered. "Those aren't mine."
But his stomach twisted like it knew better.
The craving came back in waves, stronger than before.
His mouth tasted bitter. His head throbbed. His skin felt too tight.
He poured hot water again.
Drank.
Gagged.
Again.
Each swallow felt like swallowing punishment.
This body wants something else, a thought surfaced, cold and clear.And it knows exactly how to get it.
From the other room, a muffled sob slipped through the wall.
Rayan froze.
Then another.
And another.
Each one landed like a blow.
He slid his hand over his mouth, pressing hard, like he could hold himself together by force alone.
"Stop," he whispered—to the sound, to the memory trying to claw its way out, to the shadow curling behind his thoughts.
The shadow didn't answer.
It waited.
Morning broke gray and heavy.
Mira didn't let Isha out of her sight.
She dressed the child with trembling hands, every movement sharp with caution. Isha clung to her leg, eyes dull, watching the hallway like it might swallow them.
When the bedroom door opened, Mira flinched automatically.
Rayan stood there—clean shirt, damp hair, eyes red with exhaustion. He didn't step closer.
"I'm going out," he said. "For work."
That word sounded wrong in his mouth.
Mira nodded once. No argument. No questions. Just distance.
Rayan hesitated, then placed something on the table.
Money.
A small stack. Neatly arranged.
"I'll be back before dark," he added.
Mira didn't look at him.
"Don't," she said quietly. "Don't promise things you won't keep."
He swallowed and left without another word.
Outside, the city felt louder than it should.
Rayan walked with no destination, the noise scraping against his skull. Every reflection in shop windows felt unfamiliar—like he was watching a man wearing his face.
A sudden pressure hit his head.
He staggered.
A sound—laughter? No. Screaming. Too close. Too real.
He grabbed a wall, gasping.
Her voice.
He didn't know whose.
His vision blurred. A memory slammed halfway through the door and stopped.
A raised hand.
A name on his tongue—
"Rayan."
The shadow surged.
Say it, it whispered.Say my name.
Rayan dropped to one knee, breathing hard, teeth clenched, fighting something that felt ancient and intimate all at once.
"No," he hissed. "I'm not you."
The pressure snapped.
He stayed there for a long moment, shaking, surrounded by strangers who didn't look twice.
Back home, Mira stood at the window, watching the street.
Isha tugged her sleeve.
"Papa… different?" the child whispered, unsure of the word.
Mira's throat closed.
She looked down at her daughter's hopeful, frightened face and felt something tear open inside her chest.
"I don't know," she answered honestly. "I don't know, baby."
The door handle outside turned.
Mira stiffened instantly, pulling Isha behind her.
The lock clicked.
Footsteps entered the house.
And somewhere deep inside Rayan's mind, a door finally began to open—not with answers,
but with something far worse.