The drawing lingered between them, an unfinished doorway trapped in pencil lines. It sat on the coffee table, the edges of the paper slightly curled from where Celeste's fingers had pressed too hard.
Neither of them spoke for a long time.
Amelia wasn't sure what to say. Something about the sketch unsettled her—not in a way that felt dangerous, but in a way that felt unknown. Like she was standing on the edge of something vast and dark, unable to see what lay beyond.
Celeste, on the other hand, looked at the drawing with an expression Amelia couldn't quite read. It was something between longing and fear, like she was looking at a memory that hadn't fully revealed itself yet.
Finally, Amelia broke the silence.
"What do you think it means?"
Celeste exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the page. "I don't know. But when I drew it, I had this feeling… like I've walked through this before." She looked up, her brows furrowed. "Like I've been here."
Amelia leaned closer, studying the sketch. "It looks… old."
Celeste nodded. "Ancient, maybe. But familiar."
A chill ran down Amelia's spine. She wasn't sure which was more unsettling—the fact that Celeste was beginning to remember something, or the fact that those memories weren't from this world.
Because there was no place in New York, no museum, no forgotten alleyway, that looked like this.
Amelia swallowed. "Maybe we should—"
A knock at the door interrupted her.
Both of them froze.
It was a single, sharp rap—firm, but not aggressive.
Amelia's stomach flipped. She wasn't expecting anyone.
Celeste shot her a nervous glance. "Do you think it's your dad?"
Amelia shook her head. "He doesn't visit. He barely even calls."
Another knock. Louder this time.
Amelia hesitated, then slowly stood. Celeste followed, moving closer to her as if sensing the same unease creeping into the room.
"Stay here," Amelia murmured, heading toward the door.
She hesitated for only a second before unlocking it and pulling it open just enough to see who was on the other side.
A woman stood in the dim hallway.
She was tall, wrapped in a dark coat that clung to her frame like a second skin. Her hair was jet black, pulled into a loose braid over one shoulder, and her face—sharp, striking—held an expression Amelia couldn't place. Not quite friendly, not quite hostile.
But her eyes—dark and endless—landed immediately on Amelia.
"Amelia Cross," she said, her voice smooth and unwavering.
A prickle of fear ran down Amelia's spine. "Who's asking?"
The woman didn't answer right away. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, as if studying her. Then, finally—
"I believe you have something that doesn't belong to you."Amelia's grip on the door tightened. "Excuse me?"
The woman's gaze flickered past her, toward the dimly lit apartment.
Toward Celeste.
Celeste stiffened, her breath hitching audibly. The woman's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "There you are," she murmured.
Amelia's blood ran cold. She didn't know who this woman was, didn't know what she wanted—but one thing was suddenly, terrifyingly clear.
She wasn't here for Amelia. She was here for Celeste.