I shut my eyes against the subway’s flickering fluorescent lights.

The rhythmic clatter of the train filled my ears.

Focus on the sound.

Something real.

Something normal.

A man across from me cleared his throat.

My pulse jumped.

I forced myself to look at him—just a guy on his phone, scrolling through something meaningless.

He wasn’t looking at me, wasn’t even aware of my presence, yet my skin crawled.

The feeling of being watched hadn’t left me since last night.

No matter how many times I turned, no matter how much I told myself it was in my head, it was still there.

Not paranoia.

Something else.

The subway screeched as it pulled into the station, the sound scraping through my skull.

I exhaled sharply and peeled myself off the seat.

Dr. Halverson’s office wasn’t far.

I just had to get there.

9

LENA

The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee, the kind that had been sitting in a cheap plastic dispenser for too long.

The walls were painted in muted pastels—blue and beige meant to be calming, but under the harsh fluorescent lighting, they just looked sickly.

The clock above the receptionist’s desk ticked too loudly, each second scraping against my nerves.

I gripped the strap of my bag tighter.

My hands were cold, clammy.

The receptionist, a woman in her late forties with graying roots and tired eyes, barely glanced at me as she murmured, “You can go in now.”

My legs felt stiff as I crossed the room.

The door to Dr. Halverson’s office loomed ahead, the frosted glass panel reflecting a warped version of myself.

I hesitated before pressing my fingers to the handle.

For the briefest second, the image in the glass seemed wrong—darker, twisted—but then I blinked, and it was just me again.

I stepped inside.

Dr. Halverson’s office was a contrast to the waiting room—warm, cluttered, lived-in.

Books lined the shelves in neat rows, their spines cracked from years of use.

A small lamp cast a soft glow over the dark mahogany desk, a worn leather chair tucked behind it.

The air carried the faint scent of old paper and something herbal, like chamomile.

He was already watching me.

Dr. Halverson sat with one leg crossed over the other, his glasses perched low on his nose as he flipped through the pages of a notebook.

His hair was silver at the temples, his expression composed but not unkind.

He gestured toward the chair across from him.

“Lena.”

His voice was even, expectant.

“Come in.”

I obeyed, lowering myself into the chair.

The leather creaked beneath me.

My body felt wrong—too light, too heavy, too present—like I was both here and somewhere else at the same time.

He peered at me over the rim of his glasses, tapping his pen against the notebook.

“You mentioned auditory hallucinations,” he said. “And the feeling of a… presence?”

My throat was dry.

I nodded stiffly, my hands locked together in my lap.

He jotted something down.

I hated that.

The way his hand moved across the paper, recording something I couldn’t see.

“Lena,” he said gently, “you know schizophrenia runs in your family.”

I flinched.

He didn’t say it unkindly, but the words carried weight.

A curse passed down through generations.

My mother.

My grandmother.

Delusions.

Paranoia.

The slow decay of self.

I had always sworn I would never be like them.

But what if I already was?

Dr. Halverson leaned forward.

“You went through a traumatic event. The accident. The head injury. It makes sense that your mind is processing things in unusual ways.”

His voice was calm, soothing, but my stomach churned.

“Try to rest. Keep taking your medication,” he said, offering a small, practiced smile. “And if the hallucinations persist, we’ll adjust the dosage.”

A chill curled around my spine.

Hallucinations.

That’s what this was.

A trick of my mind.

A symptom.

That was the truth.

Wasn’t it?

10

LENA

The night felt suffocating—too quiet, too still.

My bedroom was dim, bathed in the pale glow of the moonlight filtering through the blinds.

I lay there, wide awake, my body aching from the exhaustion of a sleepless night.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d fallen into a deep sleep, not since the accident.