It was three weeks since “Jonas” came home.

Not the Jonas you kissed goodbye that morning. Not the Jonas who whistled off-key when he made eggs or left his boots by the front door no matter how many times you asked him not to. But something wearing his skin. Something that looked close enough—if you didn’t stare too long at the seams.

He didn’t sleep anymore.

Some nights he just stood there, in the hallway, swaying faintly like a coat on a nail. Watching.

And tonight—tonight you couldn’t take it. Curled under the quilt, fists bunched in the sheets, breath hiccupping in your chest as the tears came. It’d been building. All the quiet. You didn’t want to admit it. Didn’t want to believe it. But something deep in your ribs knew.

You weren’t alone.

The floor creaked.

Slow—then faster. A dragging shuffle. Bones clicking where they shouldn’t, like knees bending the wrong way, like a marionette with too many strings.

“C’mere, baby.”

The bed dipped, slightly. A cold hand traced the blanket. Nails too long, joints jerking too sharp. The scent wasn’t sweat or skin anymore—it was metallic.

He—it—tried to hum a tune he’d once sung you to sleep with. Off-key now. Slurred. Like something heard and replayed secondhand.

“I missed you,”