Page 3

Three

The feeling didn’t leave.

Even as I went through my usual morning routine—shuffling into the kitchen, making coffee, staring out the window at the dull, grey skyline—I felt it. A strange, lingering pressure clinging to my skin, like I had been touched in my sleep. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant, but it wasn’t normal either. It was as if warmth and cold had seeped into me, leaving their fingerprints behind.

I wrapped my hands around my coffee mug, letting the heat soak in as I exhaled through my nose. Maybe I just needed caffeine. Maybe it was a stress thing. I’d been working too much, sleeping too little. My body was probably punishing me for it.

But the pressure in my chest refused to fade. It sat there like a weight, a dull ache I couldn’t rub away. It reminded me too much of the past—the nights I’d spent curling into myself, too aware of the things lurking in the dark. But those were different kinds of shadows, ghosts that had nothing to do with porcelain dolls or the strange warmth clinging to my skin.

I shook my head, swallowing hard. No, I wouldn’t go there. Not this early in the morning.

Still, as I sat at my kitchen table, scrolling through my emails, my gaze kept drifting toward my bedroom door. Toward the dolls.

I hadn’t thought about them much when I first woke up, but now they loomed in the back of my mind. Watching.

I pressed my palm to my sternum, feeling the steady drum of my heartbeat beneath my skin. It was just stress. Maybe I should book another session with my therapist. Tell her the paranoia was creeping back. That I was making something out of nothing again.

I sighed and pushed back from the table, glancing toward the window. Outside, the world continued without me. I used to be a part of it. I used to go to art shows, to book readings, to cafes where I’d sit and sketch for hours. I used to want things—to create, to share, to live. Now? Now I counted victories in how long I could avoid my phone ringing, how many days I could go without seeing someone who might ask how I was doing.

A flash of movement caught my eye—just a person walking their dog, but it made my chest ache. When had I stopped picturing myself outside? When had I decided that it was safer to be here, alone?

Shaking off the ridiculous thought, I stood and went to get dressed. I had errands to run, and standing around letting my overactive imagination get the best of me wasn’t going to help.

The day passed in a blur of mundane tasks—grocery shopping, picking up packages, a stop at the bookstore where I bought a novel I’d probably never get around to reading. By the time I got home, the sky had darkened, the air holding that crisp edge of oncoming winter. I relished the feeling, rolling my shoulders as I carried my bags inside. The moment I stepped into my apartment, however, something shifted.

The air was different.

Stiller. Expectant.

I frowned, kicking off my shoes as I set the bags down on the counter. Nothing was out of place. The door was locked just as I’d left it, the lights dim but undisturbed. But that same weight I’d felt that morning pressed down on me again, heavier than before.

I told myself it was just fatigue. That I was imagining things. But my body wasn’t listening. My hands felt unsteady as I put the groceries away, my breathing just a little too shallow. This was stupid.

I turned toward my bedroom.

The dolls sat exactly where I had left them, poised on their shelf, their porcelain faces bathed in the dim glow of the lamp. And yet… something felt different. The energy in the room had shifted.

I swallowed, shaking my head. “I’m being ridiculous.”

But even as I muttered the words, my feet carried me closer to the shelf. My fingers twitched at my sides, my breath slowing as I examined them. The same. They looked the same.

And yet, my pulse picked up, a slow, steady drumbeat against my ribs.

Sun’s expression seemed more pronounced, his golden lips curved in a knowing half-smile—less like a doll and more like something waiting to speak. Like he knew something I didn’t. Moon’s cracks looked deeper, the jagged lines catching the dim light in strange, shifting patterns—like veins in marble, pulsing with something unseen. Like he had something to say.

The back of my neck prickled. I reached up, pressing my fingers against my skin, massaging the tension building there. This was my problem, wasn’t it? Always second-guessing myself, always seeing things that weren’t there. Always doubting my own instincts.

I reached out—just barely. My fingertips hovered over Sun’s porcelain surface, heat seeming to radiate from him even though that wasn’t possible. I jerked my hand back before I could make contact, my throat tightening.

“I need sleep,” I muttered, backing away. “That’s all.”

Maybe I needed more than sleep. Maybe I needed to get out more, stop walling myself inside this apartment. My therapist always said I let myself linger too much in places that felt safe. I didn’t want to admit it, but maybe she was right.

I turned away from the dolls, forcing myself to breathe evenly. My fingers trailed over the edge of my desk, where an old sketchbook sat untouched. I used to draw every night. Now, I wasn’t sure the last time I had even picked up a pencil for something that wasn’t a grocery list. The realization made something heavy settle in my stomach.

But as I turned off the light and slid into bed, I could feel them staring.

Waiting.

And I had the strangest feeling… they weren’t waiting for me to wake up.

They were waiting for me to fall asleep.