Page 2

Two

They’re just dolls.

That was what I repeated as I set them on the highest shelf in my bedroom, facing outward. It felt wrong to tuck them away in a box, to shut them inside a cabinet like something forgotten.

Sun caught the glow of my bedside lamp, his golden porcelain gleaming like he was basking in an eternal sunset. Moon sat in contrast, silver cracked and shadowed, absorbing the dim light instead of reflecting it. There was something eerie about the contrast between them—the way they seemed perfectly balanced, yet completely at odds.

I stood back, rubbing my arms.

“It’s just my imagination,” I murmured to no one.

The apartment was silent except for the faint hum of my heater clicking on. I should have been comforted by the warmth, by the familiar creaks in the old walls, but something felt… heavier. Like the air itself had changed. It was a weight that settled in my chest, something I couldn’t quite name.

I shook the feeling off, crawling into bed with my phone, scrolling absentmindedly through social media feeds I wasn’t really reading.

3:07 AM.

The time burned into the top of my screen, sending a flicker of unease crawling up my spine.

I hadn’t realized how late it was. My eyelids burned, my limbs tingled with exhaustion, yet my mind remained sharp, unable to fully settle.

Yawning, I placed my phone face-down on the nightstand and rolled onto my side, forcing my body to relax. My eyelids felt heavy, and my thoughts slowed, dipping into that space between wakefulness and dreaming.

Somewhere between the haze of slipping under, I thought I heard something shift.

A faint scrape—like porcelain moving against wood.

My eyes snapped open.

The dolls hadn’t moved.

But the air was warmer.

I sat up slowly, my heartbeat sluggish and thick. My body felt heavy, like I’d been wrapped in something I couldn’t see. A warm cocoon pressing down, making my limbs feel sluggish, my thoughts syrup-thick. The sensation was strange, lulling, almost comforting in a way I couldn’t explain.

A whisper touched the edges of my mind.

Sleep.

My breath hitched. The sound wasn’t real—not in the traditional sense. It didn’t come from the room. It came from somewhere deeper, somewhere inside me. A voice I didn’t recognize, but that slid into my mind like it had always belonged there.

I turned my head toward the shelf, pulse thudding against my ribs.

The golden gleam of Sun’s porcelain face almost seemed to shimmer. The cracks on Moon’s surface felt deeper in the shadows. Their gazes, unblinking and eternal, felt heavier than before.

I blinked hard. My mind was playing tricks on me.

I’m just tired.

I forced myself back down against the pillows, exhaling shakily. My body was betraying me, pulling me under, my limbs sinking into the mattress as the warmth spread. A golden heat curled around my spine, while a cool hush settled at the base of my skull. Opposing sensations, yet somehow in harmony.

I barely registered the sigh that left my lips as I drifted deeper, warmth cocooning me on one side, a cool whisper curling around the other. My body surrendered to the feeling, my thoughts slowing into static, the weight of the world slipping away piece by piece.

Somewhere between waking and sleeping, I felt fingers brush against my wrist.

Soft. Featherlight.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t fight it.

Another touch followed, delicate yet possessive, tracing the shape of my knuckles, my palm, like someone memorizing the shape of me. My pulse stuttered. My breath came shallow. I wanted to move, to shift away, but my body wouldn’t respond. The weight of sleep was too thick, too overwhelming.

The whisper returned, softer this time. Closer.

Good girl.

A sharp pang spread through my chest, something between fear and fascination.

A new sensation flickered at the edges of my consciousness—pressure, a presence at the foot of my bed. It wasn’t forceful. It wasn’t threatening. But it was there. A weight settled, as if someone had perched on the mattress, their touch ghosting over my ankle, a faint hum of warmth bleeding into my skin.

The air in the room grew thicker, pressing against my skin like a second set of hands. My breath shallowed, my body sinking deeper, as if something unseen was pulling me down. A soft sigh brushed against my cheek—warmth on one side, a cool chill on the other. My pulse fluttered in response, caught between sensation and surrender.

I wanted to open my eyes. Wanted to confirm I was still alone.

But I couldn’t.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

I woke up slowly, my body feeling like it was still wrapped in something soft and lingering. My limbs ached as if I’d spent the whole night tense, locked in the kind of sleep that never truly refreshed.

The air in my room was thick, cloying. My sheets tangled around my legs, damp with sweat. A dull warmth curled against my skin, like I had been sleeping in direct sunlight.

The dolls hadn’t moved. But something felt different.

The shelf looked the same, the air in the room still and quiet—but the weight in my chest remained. A pressure I couldn’t name, something that had lodged itself deep inside me.

I pressed a hand to my sternum, expecting nothing—but there it was, a lingering warmth, a memory of an embrace that had never happened.

Yawning, I shook my head, trying to clear the last remnants of sleep. Maybe I was just coming down with something. It was flu season, after all. That would explain the sluggishness, the feverish feeling clinging to my skin.

I stretched my arms overhead, rolling my shoulders as I sat up. My limbs still felt weighted, slow to respond. I really needed to start going to bed earlier.

A sharp shiver crawled down my spine, and my gaze flickered back to the dolls.

I forced out a breath, shoving the unease away.

I was overthinking. Letting exhaustion get to me.

They were just dolls.

That was what I told myself as I swung my legs over the side of the bed and started my day, shoving the strange sensations into the back of my mind, where they couldn’t touch me.