I stood in the middle of my childhood home. This is a dream, I reminded myself, trying to compose the panic rising in my chest. The walls had caved in just enough to notice—just enough to make it harder to breathe.
The absence of my family wasn't loud. It was quiet in the most violent way, like someone had stolen the color out of the air.
I stopped outside of Lois's room. The door was cracked open.
I don't know what pulled me here, but here I was. Curiosity, maybe. Or guilt. Or something heavier. Older. Something I didn't have words for.
The second I stepped over the threshold, something curled behind my ribs—like a hook, pulling me into the past.
Dust coated everything. Thick and soft, like the air itself had grown skin. His bed was made. His pillow still held the faint imprint of his head, like he might walk in any minute and lie back down.
And then I saw it—the music box.
It sat quietly on the windowsill, as if it had been waiting for me.
I don't remember walking to it, but my fingers were already brushing the lid. I hesitated. Then I turned the key.
The melody that came out was gentle. Hollow. A little broken. It bled into the room like smoke.
I didn't recognize the tune. But something inside me did.
It wasn't just sad—it was remembering. Like a memory that wasn't mine.
I backed away. My knee hit the edge of the bed, and I sat down hard, suddenly dizzy.
And then everything changed.
The air shifted.
Not cooled. Not warmed.
Just… stilled.
The wind outside stopped. The branches froze. Even the dust floating in front of the window hung midair, like time had forgotten how to move.
My heart didn't pound. My breath didn't hitch. I didn't feel afraid.
But I should have.
Because it wasn't adrenaline I felt—it was something deeper. Like a tide moving under my skin. Like something inside me had woken up and was watching, curious, through my eyes.
And I hated it.
I went for a walk after.
The streets were quiet. Deserted. That kind of quiet that presses into your ears like water. My footsteps sounded too loud.
Somewhere behind me, a dog barked. Then another. Then nothing.
I didn't turn around.
The air felt wrong. Heavy.
And then I almost walked right into her.
A woman. Thin. Wild-eyed. Her hair was tangled and dirty. Her mouth cracked open like it hurt to speak.
She—she looked so much like me and my mother. There was this familiarity about her, like I knew her. But maybe that was just because she looked so much like us.
"You shouldn't be here," she whispered.
I stepped back. "What?"
Her eyes locked onto mine. "They'll come for you like they came for us. They'll slaughter you like they did to my family." She stared, weeping, her voice cracking under the weight of her sobs.
Confused, I stepped back. "W-what do you mean? My family is already slaughtered," I said, trying to tame my erratic breathing.
Her head snapped up—so fast, so unnatural—it made me stumble backward.
"You. It's you. You," she said, moving toward me, slowly lowering herself in front of me. "It chose you."
"What?"
"It's you. They slaughtered us all because of you!"
My thoughts raced, trying to make sense of what she was saying.
"What are you talking about?"
She got up. Her movements looked heavy, like her limbs were failing her. And then she was already walking away.
I just stood there, frozen, my breath curling in the still air.
Above me, the sky looked impossibly darker—no stars, no moon, just pitch-black silence.
When I got home, the music box was still playing.
I didn't remember winding it again.
But it played anyway.
And that broken lullaby followed me in my dream.