It started with water.
Not a scream. Not a knock. Not even a nightmare.
Just the sound of water dripping.
Elira stood in the hallway outside Amelia’s room, frozen, staring at the nursery floor. There—beneath the door—wet footprints.
Barefoot.
Small.
Fresh.
She turned the handle slowly.
Amelia was sleeping.
But on the windowpane—
A handprint.
Smudged. Delicate. Too large to be Amira’s. Too small to be an adult’s.
Elira backed out slowly, heart pounding.
Then she remembered.
The lake.
The scream.
The way Clara’s voice used to whisper in her head—
“You love too softly, Elira. And softness kills.”
She stumbled back to her room and braced herself against the bathroom sink. Turned on the tap.
Water.
Her eyes locked on it.
And suddenly she was nine years old again, holding Le
