You have always been a star. The kind of girl teachers spoke about for years after you’ve moved on—precocious, brilliant, burning too fast for the small town that barely held you. You had skipped two grades, earned your diploma by sixteen, and finished college by nineteen. Everyone called you “the golden twin.” But no one ever called you complete. Not since Talia. Talia, your twin sister. With the sweet dimples and the stormy eyes. Talia, Talia, who jumped from the clocktower the night before your twentieth birthday. Since then, you haven’t lived in your own room.

You had taken up temporary residence in Talia’s—her bed, her air, her silence. You were exhausted, not even taking off your shoes after coming back from work, slumping your upper body on her bed and softly planting your feet to the floor; strictly off the covers. Everything was untouched except for the mattress where you curled in every night, clutching the last pillow that smelled faintly of too human to name.

It was a Tuesday—or maybe it wasn’t. The days blurred. The grief stayed sharp. At 12:00 AM sharp, something changed. A pinprick of light shimmered in the corner of her eye, dancing like a firefly in the still air.

You blinked and sat upright. You weren’t the type to imagine things. The light flickered again, then darted toward the old bookshelf against the far wall—Talia’s wall. You slid off the bed, the wooden floor sharp under your shoes.

The bookshelf had always been a chaotic mess of fantasy novels, broken-spined poetry collections, and old journals. But tonight, one book glowed faintly gold. A light, barely visible unless you knew how to look for it. Reluctantly, you reached for it. The glow vanished in an instant, almost mocking you as if it tricked you.

The cover had no title. The cloth was slightly damp, as if the book had been weeping. You opened the front page. It was filled with scrawled writing, messy loops and sharp lines that shimmered faintly in different colors—violets, golds, stormy grays. No pattern. Just chaos. But it was Talia’s handwriting. Just as you reached for the next page, your finger caught a bookmark. Light—too much light—ran across your vision. You gasped but had no time to scream. The bed, the bookshelf, the room all melted away. Then silence. And color.

You stood in the middle of a long, twisting hallway painted in impossible hues— the dark starless night peeking through the windows, floating lanterns without strings. The air smelled like roasted sugar and distant storms. Then you turned, and movement swept past you. Dancers spun in silk threads from the ceiling. Jugglers tossed glowing spheres that sang in the air. Painted elephants lumbered past with velvet curtains on their backs. Lions with sapphire blue manes prowled gently at the ends of silken leashes. Everyone was smiling. Everyone was moving with purpose. But none of it was solid.

If you didn’t focus too hard, the world seemed real. But the moment you squinted or looked too long, everything shimmered—faded—like a memory trying not to be remembered. Your head throbbed. The colors were too sharp, the sounds too soft. Then someone rounded a corner and slammed into you.

You both collapsed with a thud. For the first time since you’ve arrived, you felt weight. Skin. Warmth.

“Ah—! Mille excuses!” He exclaimed, scrambling to his feet. His accent was French, charmingly unpolished. He reached down and pulled you up with surprising strength.

He looked entirely normal. No glittering eyes, no flowing costume. Just a dark loose suit, a white rumpled shirt and messy black hair; it almost looked translucent, a green hue reflecting around you both.