Claire fell.
Not through space, but through memory.
The mirror didn't feel like glass—it felt like grief. Like falling through every moment she had tried to bury. Her brother's face on the morning he disappeared. Her mother's hollow eyes. Her own hands, digging through the woods, screaming his name.
Then—
She landed.
Stone. Cold. Wet. Darkness swallowed everything, except the soft, flickering glow from the mark on her palm.
She was underground.
But this wasn't the normal basement. No shelves. No boiler. Just endless stone walls stretching in every direction, pulsing like a vein. The air smelled of rot and something older—like mildew clinging to forgotten secrets.
From behind her, a whisper floated through the dark:
"You're closer now."
Claire spun around. Nothing. Just black.
Then she heard it—a drip. Steady. Like water. Like blood.
And then—
Footsteps.
Tiny. Bare. Slapping against stone.
She called out: "Evan? Is that you?"
No response.
Just breathing.
She turned the corner, and there—down the hallway—stood a door.
Old. Wooden. Covered in handprints.
She walked toward it, each step slower than the last. Her mark throbbed. The door pulsed.
When she touched the handle, it was warm.
Inside, the room was small. A single lantern hung from the ceiling, flickering dimly. In the center, chained to the floor by both wrists, sat a boy.
Evan.
His hair was longer, his face paler—but it was him.
"Claire?" he whispered, voice cracking. "Is it really you?"
She ran to him, falling to her knees, grabbing his hands. "I'm here. I found you. I'm taking you home."
He looked at her—eyes wide with fear.
"It's listening. It always listens. Don't say its name."
Claire froze. Behind her, the shadows moved.
From the darkness, something began to take shape—not a ghost, not a demon, something in between. Tall. Silent. Covered in the faces it had collected.
The Whisper Collector.
And now… it wanted hers.