THE GIRLS BETWEEN WORLDS

The rain began at exactly eleven forty-seven on a Thursday night. Amara Williams remembered the time because she had been staring at the clock on her bedroom wall, wondering why she couldn't sleep. Outside, the city was alive with the distant sounds of passing cars, barking dogs, and the occasional shout from a neighbor who seemed to have forgotten that other people needed rest. The streetlights shone through her curtains, casting long shadows across the floor. Everything was normal. At least, that was what Amara wanted to believe. She sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. For the third night in a row, she had dreamed about the same place: a magnificent palace surrounded by towering walls, golden trees, and a river that glowed beneath a purple sky. In the dream, she always stood before the palace gates. And every time, someone called her name. Amara. The voice was soft, almost desperate. You must come home. She had never seen the palace before. She had never visited any place that looked remotely like it. Yet something about the dream made her feel as though she had lost something precious. Something that had been hers long before she was born. Amara pushed the thought away and reached for her phone. 12:03 a.m. "Wonderful," she muttered. "Another sleepless night." She opened her messages, hoping to find something interesting enough to distract her. There was a message from her best friend, Jessica, complaining about an argument with her boyfriend. Amara smiled faintly and typed a reply. Then the lights went out. Her bedroom plunged into darkness. "Oh, come on!" She switched on her phone's flashlight and looked toward the window. The rain was falling harder now, striking the glass with a steady rhythm. A strange feeling crept over her. For some reason, she suddenly thought of her grandmother. Miriam Williams had died three months earlier, leaving behind an old house at the edge of the city. Amara had loved her grandmother dearly, but their relationship had always been filled with unanswered questions. Grandmother Miriam had been a quiet woman with unusual habits. She never allowed anyone to enter the locked room at the end of the upstairs corridor. She collected strange objects, including old coins, faded maps, and books written in languages Amara couldn't understand. Whenever Amara asked about them, her grandmother would smile sadly. "Some things are better left sleeping, my child." At the time, Amara had assumed it was one of her grandmother's many mysterious sayings. Now, for reasons she couldn't explain, she wished she had asked more questions. Her phone vibrated. A notification appeared on the screen. UNKNOWN NUMBER: Don't open the book. Amara stared at it. "What book?" Before she could respond, another message arrived. UNKNOWN NUMBER: If you have already found it, don't read the final page. A chill traveled down her spine. She checked the number, but there was no name or profile picture. She tried calling it. The call failed immediately. "This isn't funny," she whispered. She told herself it was probably a prank. Someone had gotten her number and decided to frighten her in the middle of the night. Still, the message bothered her. What book? She had spent the entire evening scrolling through videos and chatting with friends. She hadn't seen any unusual books. Then she remembered the small package her mother had left on the living-room table that afternoon. It contained several belongings from her grandmother's house. Amara had intended to examine them the following morning. For some reason, she suddenly felt that she couldn't wait. She climbed out of bed, slipped into her slippers, and walked downstairs. The house was quiet. Her mother had already gone to bed, and the only light came from the flashlight on Amara's phone. The package sat exactly where she had left it. She opened the cardboard box. Inside were several photographs, a small jewelry case, a folded letter, and an old book wrapped in dark blue cloth. Amara frowned. She didn't remember seeing the book when her mother brought the package home. Carefully, she lifted it from the box. The book was heavier than she expected. Its cover appeared to be made of dark leather, and strange golden symbols were engraved across its surface. At the center was a circular design resembling a sun surrounded by seven stars. There was no title. No author's name. Only a small inscription along the bottom edge. Amara wiped away a layer of dust. The inscription became clearer. THE CHRONICLES OF THE FIRST KINGDOM. She read it twice. "What on earth is this?" She turned the book over, searching for a date or publisher, but found nothing. The leather felt strangely warm beneath her fingers. She almost dropped it. For a moment, she stood perfectly still. Then she laughed nervously. "Okay. Maybe I've watched too many supernatural movies." She carried the book to the sofa and opened the cover. The first page contained a handwritten message. To the daughter who belongs to two worlds. Amara stopped breathing for a second. Beneath the sentence was a name. MIRIAM WILLIAMS. Her grandmother's handwriting was unmistakable. Amara traced the letters with her finger. "Grandma?" She turned the page. The next several pages contained drawings of palaces, royal families, mysterious symbols, and people dressed in elaborate clothing. The illustrations were beautiful, but the writing beneath them looked nothing like any language she knew. Then she found a photograph. It was old and slightly faded. A young woman stood in front of a magnificent palace, wearing a long white dress and a golden crown. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders, and her expression was calm but serious. Amara leaned closer. The woman looked exactly like her. Not a little. Not vaguely. Exactly. The same eyes. The same nose. The same small mark beneath the left side of her chin. Amara touched her own chin. "No. That isn't possible." She turned the photograph over. Three words had been written on the back. Princess Amara. First Heir. Her heart began to pound. She looked at the photograph again, desperately searching for an explanation. Perhaps it was an ancestor. Perhaps someone had created an elaborate family legend. But the photograph looked far too detailed for a simple drawing, and the woman in it appeared to be no older than twenty. Amara was eighteen. She flipped through the remaining pages. Names and dates appeared in the margins, accompanied by descriptions of wars, royal marriages, betrayals, and a kingdom called Aurelion. Then she found a page with her own name written across the top. AMARA WILLIAMS: THE BRIDGE BETWEEN WORLDS. Below it was a paragraph written in the same handwriting as the first message. When the seventh star returns, the lost heir shall awaken. She will carry the blood of the first king and the memories of a forgotten kingdom. She will possess what was taken from her ancestors, yet she will doubt her own strength. The world she knows will call her home, but the world she has forgotten will demand her return. Amara read the passage three times. She didn't understand it. She didn't want to understand it. This was impossible. Her grandmother had been an ordinary woman. She had cooked meals, told stories, and complained whenever Amara stayed awake too late. She couldn't possibly have been involved in some ancient royal mystery. Could she? A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the living room. The book trembled in Amara's hands. She froze. The golden symbols on its cover began to glow. At first, the light was faint. Then it grew brighter, spreading across the pages like liquid sunlight. Amara scrambled to her feet. "What is happening?" The windows rattled. The lights flickered, even though the electricity had already gone out. A low humming sound filled the room. Then the book opened by itself. Pages flipped rapidly until they stopped at the very last one. The final page. The one the unknown person had warned her not to read. Amara tried to close the book, but her fingers wouldn't move. Words appeared across the empty page. Not written in ink. They seemed to burn directly into the paper. THE HEIR HAS AWAKENED. A second sentence appeared. THE GATES WILL OPEN TONIGHT. Then, beneath it, a final warning. DO NOT TRUST THE PRINCE. Amara's breath caught in her throat. "The prince?" A blinding flash filled the room. The book slipped from her hands and struck the floor. At the same instant, the jewelry case opened. A small golden pendant rose into the air. It was shaped like a sun surrounded by seven stars, identical to the symbol on the book's cover. Amara watched in disbelief as it floated toward her. She stepped backward. "No. No, no, no." The pendant stopped directly in front of her chest. A strange warmth spread through her body. She felt a sudden pressure behind her eyes, followed by a rush of unfamiliar memories. A woman crying. A man shouting. The sound of horses racing across stone streets. A palace burning beneath a blood-red sky. And a young boy standing before a throne, his face hidden beneath a silver mask. Then came a voice. You were never supposed to leave us. Amara clutched her head. "Stop!" The memories vanished. The pendant dropped into her palm. For several seconds, nothing happened. Then the floor beneath her feet began to glow. A circle of golden symbols appeared around her, rotating slowly. The air grew colder, and the walls seemed to stretch farther away. Amara tried to run.