Ryan's feet froze on the stairs.
The handprint on the window was small—smaller than his palm, smaller than Elena's. A child's hand. But the fingers were too long, the nails too sharp, and the glass beneath it was cracking.
Mira's shadow stretched across the window sill, reaching toward him. Not crawling—flowing, like liquid darkness.
Ryan grabbed the stair rail. His reflection was still missing, but the shadow was there. Solid. Hungry.
"Mira," he whispered. "Can you hear me?"
The shadow stopped.
Then it formed a face—not the baby's face, but something older. Something that had been waiting inside her all along.
"She can't hear you. She's sleeping."
Ryan's heart pounded. "Who are you?"
"The piece the remnant left behind. The part that was always hers."
"You're lying."
"Touch the
