Elina began to count without meaning to.
Steps between buildings. Seconds between breaths. The rhythm of her pulse when the nightmares lingered too long after waking. Numbers settled into her mind like dust, unavoidable, clinging.
She hadn't told Alina about the 90.
Not yet.
The dream returned before dawn, sharper than the others. She was standing in a narrow corridor
—stone walls damp with age, the air smelling of metal and something older. At the center lay the ring, suspended, unmoving. Beneath it, carved into the floor, were the numbers again.
90
This time, they did not fade.
They burned.
Elina woke with her throat tight, the echo of a voice still pressed against her ears. It wasn't screaming. It wasn't pleading. It was counting—slow, deliberate, merciless.
She sat up, pressing her feet against the cold floor, grounding herself. The room looked normal. Too normal. The ordinary world felt fragile now, like a thin layer stretched over something rotten.
She reached for her notebook.
Page after page was filled with observations—dates, times, sensations, sketches of the ring. She added today's date and paused. Her pen hovered, then moved.
Day One.
The realization settled heavily in her chest. If the number was a countdown—and her instincts screamed that it was—then it had already begun.
At breakfast, Alina talked about an upcoming presentation, her voice bright, animated. Elina watched her carefully, memorizing the curve of her smile, the ease in her movements. There was guilt in that watching, sharp and unwelcome, like she was already preparing for loss.
"Elina?" Alina frowned. "You're staring."
"Sorry," she murmured, looking down. "Didn't sleep well."
That was true. Just not the whole truth.
Later, Elina returned to the museum alone.
She didn't tell Alina where she was going.
The gallery felt colder than before, the air thick with silence. The display case where the ring had been was still there—empty now, with a small plaque beneath it. She leaned closer, heart hammering.
ON LOAN — TEMPORARILY REMOVED FOR RESTORATION
A lie. Or something worse.
Her reflection stared back at her from the glass, pale and unsettled. For a moment—just a moment—she thought she saw another face behind her.
Older.
Sharper.
Smiling without warmth.
Elina spun around.
Nothing.
But the certainty remained: the ring hadn't simply gone missing. It had been reclaimed.
That night, the dream changed again.
She was no longer watching from a distance. She was inside the moment—hands bound, breath shallow, the sound of footsteps approaching. The number hovered in the air now, ticking downward.
89
She woke gasping, tears sliding silently into her hair.
There was no denial left. No space for doubt.
One of them would die.That night, the dream changed again.
She was no longer watching from a distance. She was inside the moment—hands bound, breath shallow, the sound of footsteps approaching. The number hovered in the air now, ticking downward.
89
She woke gasping, tears sliding silently into her hair.
There was no denial left. No space for doubt.
One of them would die.
And the worst part—the part that hollowed her from the inside—was that Elina was no longer asking if.
She was asking which one.