They drove in silence at first. Mireya hummed to herself, swinging her feet in the back seat. The moment Annie's mind began to drift, back to the document, back to the taste of bad coffee and the static flicker of her reality—
"Mommy, look!" Mireya squealed. "That cloud looks like a dragon!"
Annie jumped, refocusing. "A dragon?"
"Yes! But a nice dragon."
"Of course."
A few seconds passed.
Then—
"Can we paint when we get home? And maybe make cookies? And play the 'guess the animal' game?"
Annie nodded distractedly, hands tight on the wheel. "We will see, baby."
"Mama?"
"Yes?"
"Are you listening?"
She looked in the rearview mirror.
Mireya's eyes locked with hers.
Big. Trusting. Real.
And Annie felt it again, that soft pull in her chest.
That perfect lie.
Because every time her thoughts wandered, every time she started to question—
Mireya pulled her back.
Because what kind of mother walks away from her child?
Even one that might not exist.
Back home, the kitchen was spotless. Cheerful. Perfect.
The recipe was already out.
The ingredients already lined up.
As if someone had laid the scene just waiting for her to step into it.
Annie didn't remember getting them down. She was standing at the counter, apron tied neat around her waist. She didn't remember tying it. Or preheating the oven. Or smiling this much.
Mireya beside her on a stool, humming as she dropped chocolate chips into the bowl with tiny, sticky hands.
"Cookies, cookies, cookies," the girl sang. "I like mine extra gooey, like Daddy makes 'em!"
Annie stirred the dough slowly. Methodically. But her mind was elsewhere, spinning on the name in that hidden file. A life rewritten.
On Malvor's toothpaste kisses. On how he never, ever made bad coffee.
On how the little girl she loved so much had a name that meant miracle, a miracle born without scars, without memories, in a world where nothing had ever gone wrong.
"Mama," Mireya chirped. "Can I lick the spoon?"
Annie didn't answer.
She stared at the bowl, the way the dough clung to the wooden spoon like it had weight, but no warmth.
"Mama."
Still no response.
She was thinking about the runes. Her scars. The ache in her bones from something real, something earned.
Something gone.
"Mama," Mireya said again, sharper this time.
Annie blinked and looked down.
The little girl's eyes were wide. Still sweet. Still childlike.
But watching her too closely.
"Mama, you are not listening," she whined.
Annie forced a smile. "Sorry, baby. I was just, thinking."
"We're baking cookies," the girl said, almost accusing now. "Together. You love this."
Annie nodded slowly. "Right. Of course I do."
She handed over the spoon and turned away to grab the tray.
Behind her, Mireya's hum turned a little louder. Off-key.
Clumsy fingers spilled flour onto the floor.
"Oops," she said, but didn't sound sorry.
Annie ignored it. Kept moving. Her skin prickled.
"Mama," the girl said again, closer now. "You're not happy."
Annie's hand froze over the oven door.
She turned.
Mireya stood by the bowl, fists clenched at her sides.
The flour on her cheeks looked like dust. Her eyes too round, too still.
"You're not supposed to be sad here," she said. "You're ruining it. You should smile more. You used to smile more. Before the marks."
Annie took a slow breath. "It's okay to be sad sometimes, baby. Even in the good places."
"No," Mireya said, voice sharper. Louder. "You're not supposed to want to leave."
Annie stared.
The air shifted.
And for the first time, she saw it:
Not the child.
Not her child.
But the puppet.
The anchor.
The illusion fighting to stay real.
The spoon hit the floor with a loud clatter.
Mireya didn't flinch.
"Sit down, Mommy," she said, voice flat. "We are not done yet."
And Annie knew—
The dream had teeth.
Annie didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Didn't obey.
She stared down at the thing in front of her, the child who wasn't a child, who wasn't hers. The flour on her cheeks had turned to ash. Her curls were stiff, unmoving, like someone had painted joy over a mannequin and let it dry in place.
The illusion watched her with cold precision. Waiting. Willing her to fall back in line.
But Annie?
She smiled.
A slow, dangerous thing.
Then whispered, "Oh no, little girl."
Her voice was velvet. And iron.
"I have met the real Lord of Chaos. I've seen him unmade. Held him while he broke. Danced with him through madness. Loved him through it."
She took a step forward, the illusion child shrinking slightly in response.
"You think you scare me? You think this is power?"
Another step.
The floor flickered beneath her feet like bad signal, reality trying to catch up.
"You're nothing," Annie said, quiet and certain. "Our real daughter will be terrifying in the best way. Born of chaos and fire and impossible love. She will ride a warhorse, bite her uncles, and learn how to use illusions as weapons before she learns to read."
She leaned down, level with the creature's dull, false eyes.
"You? You're just a distraction."
And she turned.
Walked toward the door.
Didn't run.
Didn't panic.
She chose.
And behind her—
The illusion cracked.
Mireya screamed.
It wasn't a child's scream. It wasn't human.
It was a banshee howl of fury and desperation, glass shattering in the sound, walls melting into shadow. The air warped, bending inward as if the illusion itself were throwing a tantrum.
Annie didn't turn back.
The cabinets burst open.
The floor split down the center like an earthquake swallowed the kitchen whole.
Black ichor dripped from the ceiling, boiling and spitting with rage.
And still—
She walked.
"You're not real," she said over the shriek behind her. "He is. We are."
The front door appeared, flickering, broken, but there.
She reached for it.
Mireya's voice split the air one final time behind her, a guttural snarl of something not meant for mortal throats—
"MAMA!"
She wrapped her fingers around the door handle, the roar of the illusion collapsing behind her.
Almost free.
Almost—
The voice slipped into her mind, soft as a lullaby:
"You'll forget her face."
Her hand tightened.
"You'll forget her laughter."
A second of doubt.A heartbeat of grief.
Because somewhere deep inside, she knew:It was true.
The moment she stepped through this door, Mireya—this version of her—would unravel.The curls.The sticky fingers.The sound of tiny feet running across polished wood.The pure, perfect trust in a child's voice calling her "Mama"—
All of it would dissolve.
Become a memory she could never touch again.
Not because she chose wrong.Because the dream never truly existed.
Her eyes burned.
But she did not let go.
She turned the handle.Stepped forward.
And let the memory die behind her.