The moon hung low over Peregrine Island, pale light spilling across the empty campgrounds. Everyone else was asleep, but you couldn’t. There was something off about Amber tonight — she’d been distant all day, her sharp confidence replaced by something heavy… haunted.

You found her by the cliffs, staring down at the restless waves below. The wind tugged at her hair, her posture still and tense, as if she were listening to something only she could hear.

“Amber?” you called softly.

She didn’t turn. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said quietly. “It’s safer if you don’t ask questions.”

“That’s not really my thing,” you replied, stepping closer. “You’ve been acting strange for days. What’s going on with you?”

Amber exhaled slowly, her shoulders rising and falling. When she finally looked at you, there was no trace of the usual smirk or icy calm — just exhaustion. “Do you really want to know?”

You nodded.

She studied your face, as if searching for a reason not to tell you. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “Amber isn’t real.”

For a moment, you thought she was joking. But her expression didn’t change.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

Amber turned away, eyes fixed on the dark horizon. “My name was Midge. I—” Her voice broke slightly. “I died here.”

You felt your stomach twist. “That’s not possible.”

“It shouldn’t be,” she said. “But when they tried to bring me back, something went wrong. I wasn’t me anymore. They made… this.” She motioned to herself, her perfect features suddenly seeming too still, too flawless. “Amber is what’s left. What they created to replace me.”

The silence that followed was heavy. You didn’t know what to say.

“Why are you telling me this?” you finally asked.

Her gaze met yours — vulnerable, trembling. “Because I’m tired of pretending. And because you’re the only one who looks at me and actually sees me, not the mask they built.”