Daniel had learned to brush off the strange things.
June talked in her sleep.Sometimes she wandered at night.Sometimes she stared too long at the doll.
But that morning, something was different.
The doll's dress was soaked.With water. Or blood. Or something in between.And there were muddy footprints on the kitchen tiles—too small to be hers.
He showed her, hoping she'd laugh. Hoping she'd say it was a joke.
She didn't.
June stared at the prints like they were writing. Like she could read them.
"I used to walk like that," she whispered. "In bare feet. Down a wooden hall."
Daniel stiffened. "You mean, in your dream?"
But she didn't answer.
She was already walking toward the bedroom.
That night, Daniel heard it.
The scrape.
Not a knock. Not a creak.
A scrape.
Like porcelain dragged slowly across wood.
He followed the sound to the bedroom.
The doll was no longer on the shelf.
It was sitting in front of the mirror.
Face pressed to the glass.
And across the mirror, written in wet fingerprints, were the words:
"You left me behind."
June didn't scream.
She walked up beside him and touched the mirror like it was a memory.
"It's her," she said softly. "She remembers us. From the fire. From before."
Daniel's voice cracked. "Who is she?"
June smiled.
But it wasn't her smile.
"Your wife."
Suddenly, Daniel's sketchbook burst into flames on the table behind them.
No matches. No spark.Just fire.
And the doll, untouched, sitting calmly in front of it all.
Watching.