The apartment was quiet when June woke.Too quiet.
Daniel was in the studio room, but she couldn't hear the hum of his music or the scratch of his pencil. Just silence.
And beneath it, something breathing.
Not in the room.
Inside her.
She sat up slowly. The doll was lying beside her on the couch, head turned toward her neck like it had been whispering in her ear.
She reached for her phone to check the time.
The screen lit up—then flickered. Glitched. Died.
In the reflection of the black screen, she saw herself.Not blinking.Not breathing.Still.
Just watching.
Daniel called from the other room, "June? You good?"
She opened her mouth to say yes, but something else came out.
"He never buried me."
Daniel appeared in the doorway, confused. "What?"
June blinked. "What?"
He stared at her. "What did you just say?"
"I didn't say anything," she whispered.
He didn't press. But that night, he started sketching again.The same woman.Again and again.Each time, her eyes more hollow. Her smile more knowing.
June walked into the kitchen. She was hungry but didn't want food.She wanted something cold.Something that remembered her.
She opened a drawer. Not the fridge.The drawer with the scissors.
Her hand hovered. Then closed it again.
That night, she dreamed of a name carved into a tombstone.
A woman in a black dress sobbing beside it.
The doll sitting on the grave like a bride.
She couldn't read the name—until she touched the stone.
And it burned into her mind:
Eleanor. L. W.
She woke up screaming.
Not in fear.
But in recognition.
Daniel ran to her, grabbing her shoulders.
"June! What is it? What did you see?"
She looked at him—eyes wide, hands shaking.
"I saw her grave," she whispered."And I think it used to be mine."