XXXV. The Recognition
The walls pressed closer. Mia's phone sat on the bedside table, David's message still glowing on its screen, a reminder that the impossible had become routine tonight. The room smelled of old wood polish and dust.
"Gosh," Mia said. "What can that mean? In human language?"
"That someone only looking like human—our distant relative—orchestrates all that." Lora's words came flat, toneless.
Mia snorted, the sound carrying more weight than humor. "It explains everything. But what does it explain?" She looked at Emma. Her fingers knotted together. "I am a bit tired to feel like a puppet. Pulled from our farm, deposited in an impossible house, given studios we didn't ask for, receiving messages from my dead husband. And now learning that the puppeteer might be family we
