She awoke to rustling—soft, deliberate movement. The sound of someone shifting papers nearby. Breathing. Present.

Not a dream.

The man was here again. The one with the sad eyes. No protective suit this time. He was dressed in clean, clinical whites, a shirt that practically blended with the sterile walls around her. His tie was sky blue, and new—uncharacteristically bright for someone with such a heavy gaze.

He wore glasses now, perched low on his nose, and held a small stack of papers that fluttered slightly as he walked. His posture was stiff, but his face—his face shifted. From intense focus to something… softer. Still not warm, not exactly. But restrained. Composed.

As if he were trying to convince himself that everything was going to be okay.

"Hello, Toole," he said.

His voice was quiet. Not hesitant, but careful. Like he was handling something fragile.

She blinked. Once. Then again.

Her mouth parted, but all that came out was a rasping breath—dry, shapeless. Not a word. Just air.

The man exhaled. A weary smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. "Still not speaking yet. That's okay," he murmured. "We're not in a rush."

He moved closer, pulling a stool next to the bed. Sat without looking at her, flipping through the pages in his hand.

"I need to ask you a few questions. Just simple things. Do you understand?"

She tilted her head slightly, brow creasing. The words made sense—but processing them felt like dragging her mind through wet sand. Thoughts floated just out of reach.

Her throat worked, trying to form something more—anything—but again, only a hoarse puff came out.

The man raised his hands gently. "It's alright. Don't force it. You don't have to speak. Just listen."

Then he raised his thumb. "Thumb up for 'yes.'"

Lowered it. "Thumb down for 'no.' Understand?"

She stared at his hand. Then, slowly—tentatively—lifted her own and gave a shaky thumbs-up.

His eyes flicked to her hand and lit with something faint but undeniable.

Hope.

"Nonverbal communication. That's good," he said softly. "Very good. You're still in there."

She didn't know why, but that small look of approval made something in her chest swell. Recognition. Connection.

"Alright." He glanced at his clipboard. "Let's start with the basics. Your name is Toole. Do you believe that's your name?"

She smiled. Thumb up. A simple answer, and an obvious one. Of course it was her name. Why wouldn't it be?

And yet… something shifted behind her eyes. A whisper deep in the recesses of her mind. A shadow of a thought she couldn't grasp. Something else. Something… wrong.

Still, she pushed it down. The man believed she was Toole. And—for now—so did she.

He gave a faint smile in return. "Excellent. That's a big first step."

Then, abruptly: "Alright. Next question. Vanilla or chocolate? Up for vanilla, down for chocolate."

She blinked again, confused at first—then smiled wider, and gave an emphatic thumbs-down.

"Chocolate it is," he nodded, gesturing to someone just out of view. A nurse in white took note with a small grin.

"Chocolate ice cream for our recovering sleeper," he said with the faintest glimmer of humor. "Let it be known she has good taste."

Chocolate. That lit a spark of happiness in her chest. Something real. Something human.

But then the man looked back down at his clipboard.

"Okay. Next question—how do you feel?"

Before he could elaborate, she lowered her thumb—firmly. Flat and absolute.

His brow furrowed. "What?"

He was surprised. Not by the answer, but by how quickly and definitively it had come.

Thumb still down, she tried again to speak. Nothing coherent came out. Just a whimper, raw and scraping.

He leaned forward, concern cracking through his professionalism. "Toole… are you in pain?"

Another thumbs-down.

"Are you… afraid?"

A pause. She hesitated. Then another thumbs-down.

He frowned now, truly puzzled. "Then… why the no?"

She raised her hand again and opened her fingers. Then slowly touched her chest with her palm, eyes wide, not with fear, but with something deeper. Something unspoken.

Then she pointed to her head.

And then finally… she gestured vaguely at the air around her.

He stared at her. And the realization settled in.

"You don't feel like yourself."

Thumb up.

The man leaned back in his chair, exhaling a long, measured breath. The weight of her truth—of what little she could even express—settled between them like dust in a forgotten room.

"I see," he murmured, eyes distant for a moment. "We've got more work ahead of us than I thought."

Then he leaned forward again, voice gentler now. "How about I ask you a few more questions? Maybe it'll help… maybe you'll start to feel more like yourself."

She raised her hand, thumb up.

"Alright." He glanced down at his clipboard, then back up. "Do you remember anything from before you came here?"

Her eyes unfocused. She was no longer looking at him.

She was looking inward.

And inside—it wasn't nothing. Not quite.

It was a black void. Vast and suffocating. Not empty, but silent, as if the very concept of sound had been stripped from it. And yet, she had heard something.

Strange sounds. Twisting tones, warped like voices underwater. Echoes. Screams maybe—or laughter. Or both.

And then… darker things.

A whisper beneath the whisper. Something deeper. Something less fragile. Something aware.

It stirred.

It didn't cry out. It pressed forward. Not like a thought, but like a hand reaching from within her mind. Cold. Curious. Wanting to reach through her… and keep going.

Wanting to pull someone else into that void.

Forever.

Or maybe it was a part of her. Or maybe it used to be.

She blinked once, then again, her breath trembling.

Thumb down.

The man's face changed. Just a flicker. Not disappointment exactly—he had expected it. Hoped otherwise, maybe. But this… confirmed something.

"No memories at all?" he asked, not expecting a different answer.

Still, she gave the thumb down again.

He nodded slowly. Then hesitated before continuing, eyes searching hers. "Do you want to see how you look? Now? In a mirror?"

She blinked at him. The question lingered in her thoughts.

How she looked?

She thought she knew. She remembered her face—clean, composed, dark hair, sharp eyes. Neat. Measured. Human.

But another image floated to the surface. One hidden in the cold recesses of her subconscious.

Red.

Not crimson like velvet or lipstick. No. Sticky, oozing red. It clung to her. Hot and drying on pale skin.

And white.

Not light. Bone.

She remembered… something missing. A piece. A part of her. A break that never should have happened.

She saw herself—maybe not in a mirror, but in reflection. In darkness. Her body coated in shadow. She was red. She was white. She was not whole.

Her hand trembled… then rose.

She nodded, a slow, deliberate motion.

Then gave a thumbs up.

The man didn't smile. But he understood.

"I'll bring it," he said. "One step at a time."

He stood up and gathered his papers again, careful not to rush, not to disrupt the moment.

"Toole… I know this feels like falling through something with no floor," he said quietly. "But you are here. And that means something."


He spoke like a man not trying to convince her, but to convince himself—of something heavier than words could carry. Each syllable was coated in guilt he hadn't named yet. The corners of his mouth twitched in a half-hearted attempt at composure, but his eyes betrayed him.

He blamed himself.

For all of it.

And somehow, that felt wrong to her. Not because it wasn't his fault—she didn't know. But because the weight of it didn't belong to one person alone. Whatever had happened, it had reached too far, taken too much.

She didn't know how to say that.

So instead, she just gave a small smile and raised her thumb up. An answer that didn't match the moment, not really, but it was all she had.

And he understood. Or pretended to.

His shoulders relaxed just slightly, as if she had let a little light in. As if her effort to keep him from falling apart had worked.

Then the nurse entered, young, quiet, with a face practiced in stillness, and set a cup of chocolate ice cream beside her. The sweet scent was comforting. Childlike. Safe.

But what came next was not.

The mirror.

It was modest in size, framed in metal, and smudged slightly at the edges. The nurse placed it gently on the bedside table, angled toward her.

The man paused at the doorway, gave her one last look, and a nod, then left the room with the nurse.

The door shut behind them with a soft click.

Now it was just her. Alone. With the mirror.

And in that silence, something shifted. The fuzz in her head cleared just enough. Words began to form, no longer gasps or raw concepts. They lined up, crisp and real, inside her mind.

See yourself. Describe yourself.

She turned, hesitant.

And looked.

The girl in the mirror stared back, her expression blank, unsure whether to smile or cry.

Her hair was dark, almost black, raven-dark, and cut to just above her shoulders. It didn't fall into her eyes. It was tidy. Controlled. Efficient.

She didn't like it.

It wasn't her.

She didn't remember what was her… but this didn't feel right.

Her eyes caught her next. They stopped her cold.

Blue. But not quite. Green. But not really. A strange in-between, like looking at a patch of grass through the distorted lens of lake water. Cool. Submerged. Alive, but far away.

They were haunting. Beautiful, even. But they didn't belong to someone she remembered being. They seemed sharper… no duller.

Then came the shape of her face. Soft. Delicately formed. A touch of symmetry too perfect. Not artificial… but not fully lived-in. As if someone had carved a future into her features, a girl meant to become something elegant, poised.

But still unfinished.

Still… a child.

She blinked.

Her skin was pale. Not porcelain. Not the gentle pale of sleep or northern winters. It was sheened, a kind of too-perfect smoothness. Not sweaty, but preserved. Not healthy.

Clinical.

As if she'd been built for stasis. As if warmth and flush and flaw had been pulled from her flesh and replaced with something artificial and still.

Her hand drifted to her cheek. It was soft. Too soft.

Her fingers trembled.

She looked again into the eyes. Her own eyes. And they didn't blink.

She had blinked. But the reflection had not.

Her breath caught.

Something behind her skin remembered pain. And the mirror remembered everything else.

She took a deep breath, and blinked again, and from the look of the mirror, it did not remain open. They closed just the same, as her own.

Are you a Ghost?

She didn't know what a Ghost was. She knew something felt wrong