Elina woke to the faint scrape of the clock's second hand. The air in her room was too still, almost heavy, pressing against her chest. She stayed motionless, listening, her mind already reaching back into the nightmare that clung to her like wet cloth.
The walls had been closing again, tighter this time. The figure had been closer, more solid. And there—she thought she had glimpsed a number, faint, written on a surface that shouldn't exist: 90.
She tried to dismiss it. Rational thoughts whispered, It's just a dream. Just a dream. But rationality felt like paper against a flame—fragile and pointless.
Her hand drifted to the notebook she had kept hidden beneath her pillow. Pages filled with sketches of the ring, descriptions of the dreams, and now, tiny notes on the symbols she thought she had seen. The pull of the ring wasn't gone; she could almost feel it underneath her skin, just beyond touch.
She glanced at the bed across the room. Alina was still asleep, face relaxed, as if nothing had touched her in the night. Elina's chest tightened at the contrast. Her sister's cheerfulness felt both comforting and infuriating.
Elina dressed quietly and went to the kitchen. Breakfast was muted. Alina chattered easily, seemingly oblivious, while Elina nibbled at toast and sipped tea, thinking about the dreams. Every glance, every movement of shadows seemed heavier now, like the air itself remembered the curse.
"Alina," she said finally, soft but urgent, "did you… feel it last night? The dream?"
Alina laughed lightly, brushing it off. "It's just sleep, Lina. You're overthinking."
Elina's fingers tightened around her cup. Overthinking? She knew better. The pull, the cold, the recognition in the ring… it was happening. It had started. And this time, it wasn't going to stop.
After breakfast, she retreated to her room, pretending to study. But her mind drifted, connecting fragments from the dreams: the figure in the hood, the darkened ring, the faint, impossible numbers. She sketched hurriedly, page after page, trying to make sense of what her instincts already knew.
Alina's voice floated from the living room, bright and unaware, and Elina pressed her hand over her eyes. She felt the weight of inevitability. One of them was marked. One of them would die. And there was nothing she could do yet—except watch, record, and prepare.
By the time afternoon arrived, the dreams were no longer confined to sleep. A shadow shifted in her peripheral vision. A chill ran along her spine. And she knew, without doubt, that the curse had begun its slow, unrelenting work.
Elina's jaw tightened. She would survive. She had to.
But Alina… she wasn't ready to accept the darkness yet.
And the ring would not wait.