Elina stopped sleeping.
Or rather, she slept in fragments—thin, restless pieces that never settled deep enough to offer rest. The dreams no longer waited for night anyway. They crept into the spaces between moments, slipping through cracks she hadn't known existed.
Eighty-seven.
The number followed her now, uninvited, pulsing behind her eyes.
Alina was already awake when Elina entered the kitchen, pacing, energy sharp and unfocused. There was a wild determination in her movements, the kind that came from refusing to accept an ending.
"I'm not letting this happen," Alina said without preamble. "There has to be something. A rule. A loophole."
Elina nodded, though her chest felt heavy. "Curses don't usually come with mercy clauses."
"That's not helpful."
"It's honest.
Alina exhaled sharply and grabbed her bag. "I'm going out. I'll ask around. Libraries, professors—someone will know something."
Alina exhaled sharply and grabbed her bag. "I'm going out. I'll ask around. Libraries, professors—someone will know something."
The door shut behind her with finality.
Elina remained still.
She hadn't told Alina about the feeling yet—the sensation that something had shifted the moment the ring disappeared. As if the curse had inhaled, preparing for the next stage.
She opened her laptop and began to search.
At first, it was academic: folklore journals, historical records, fragmented translations of old legends. Witches bound to objects. Curses tethered to bloodlines. Rituals designed not to kill immediately—but to wait.
Punishment through anticipation.
Her fingers slowed as she found a recurring pattern. A symbol sketched again and again in different cultures.
A ring.
A countdown.
Twins.
The screen flickered.
Elina froze.
The reflection staring back at her from the darkened glass was not alone.
She turned slowly.
The room was empty.
Still, the air felt wrong—thick, charged, humming faintly, as if something unseen had passed through and left a residue behind. Her skin prickled.
She shut the laptop.
That night, the dream pulled her under without warning.
She stood in the museum again—but it was no longer clean, no longer preserved. Dust coated the floors. The walls were cracked. At the center, a woman stood with her back turned, long dark hair threaded with silver.
"You're early," the woman said calmly.
Elina's heart slammed. "Who are you?"
The woman turned.
Her eyes were familiar. Not in memory—but in recognition, like seeing something you were never meant to forget.
"You took what was mine," the witch said softly. "And now time remembers you."
Above them, glowing dimly:
86
Elina woke screaming.
She pressed her hand over her mouth, breath tearing from her chest. The certainty was absolute now, crushing in its clarity.
The witch wasn't history.
She was here.
And by searching—by looking too closely—Elina had been seen.