The black flower in the garden pulsed once, then twice, then settled into a steady rhythm.
Ryan stood at the kitchen window, watching it. The silver edges caught the morning light, and for a moment, he could almost see Mira's face in the petals—older now, wiser, but still his daughter.
"Dada, the darkness is talking to me again."
He turned. Mira stood in the doorway, her silver eyes glowing faintly. She was seven now—her body had caught up to her accelerated mind, and she looked like a small adult, her features sharp and determined.
"What is it saying?"
"It's showing me things. The beginning. Before the mirrors. Before the echoes. Before anything."
Ryan knelt in front of her. "What did it show you?"
Mira's eyes grew distant. "There was a world before ours. Not a world of glass, not
