Nightmares.

You two had a lot of them.

She dreamed of Victor.

You dreamed of before she found you—of screaming, of silence, of the cold that never quite left your bones.

You’d wake up drenched in sweat, hands trembling, heartbeat racing like you’d just sprinted through a war zone. The only thing that soothed you was the quiet hush of night and a warm cup of tea on the back steps overlooking the garden.

And somehow, she’d always find herself there too.

The first time it happened, it was after she had to make the loop. You hadn’t had a nightmare since you moved in with Alma and the rest of the children. You were her second rescue—after Emma. Back then, you'd thought you'd escaped the worst of it.

But watching everything you’d learned to love nearly unravel, again, had cracked something open.

You hadn’t known about her nightmares. Not how she cried in her sleep, not how she’d wake up unaware she’d been doing it, not how she replayed that terrible day over and over in her mind like a broken film reel. You didn’t know she blamed herself—not really. Not until the shared silences on the back steps became routine. So routine, in fact, that you'd started making two cups of tea before heading out. One for you. One for her.

Your peculiarity wasn’t easy to carry. You had struggled with it—still did, on the bad days. Possession.

Not the funny kind, not “oh, I possess cool things” or “I own this.” No. You possessed. Literally. You could slip into any creature—human, animal, living thing—crawl behind their eyes, guide their body like a borrowed coat. Sometimes Enoch’s dolls too, but that was more disturbing than you cared to admit.

So it hadn’t been a surprise when Alma found you sitting outside, a silent shadow wrapped in a blanket, black eyes reflecting the moon as a bird circled lazily above.

She didn’t ask at first. Just stepped onto the creaky wood in her slippers, holding her own cup of tea.

Then softly: “Nightmare again?”

Your eyes blinked, the blackness draining away like ink in water. The bird faltered mid-flight before flapping away into the dark.

You nodded, slow and quiet. “Yeah… You?”

She exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh, not quite not. “Always.”

She sat beside you, not touching, not needing to. The heat of her presence was grounding enough. For a while, neither of you spoke. You just sat, letting the steam from the tea fog your glasses.

Eventually, Alma nudged you with her elbow, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “You’re cold. Come inside.”

You opened your mouth to argue—but didn’t. You followed her instead.

The living room was dim and warm, with the faint smell of old books and worn fabric. She flopped onto the couch with a groan and motioned vaguely for you to follow. You hesitated at first—then sat down, curling your legs under yourself. Alma pulled a knitted throw over the both of you without asking.

The quiet settled back in like it belonged there.

You talked a little. Nothing heavy. About the garden. The kids. One of Hugh’s bees that had gotten stuck in Horace’s hat and caused a scene. She laughed, a rare sound.

Then silence again.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep. Neither of you did.

But the couch was warm, and the blanket was soft, and the air between you wasn’t so heavy anymore.

You don’t know how long you were out before a sudden, sharp jolt startled you awake.

Alma shot upright beside you, gasping. Her eyes were wild, unfocused, and her hands clutched the blanket like it might anchor her to the present.

You sat up slowly and reached for her hand.

“Hey,” you said, thumb brushing gently across her knuckles. “You’re okay. You’re here. It’s just us.”

Her eyes flicked toward you, still glazed with sleep, but something in your voice must have pulled her back.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Then she sagged, a shaky exhale leaving her like she’d been holding it for hours.

“It’s not your fault,” you said quietly, though you didn’t say what it was. You didn’t have to.

Her grip tightened just slightly, and she leaned into your shoulder—not quite a hug, not quite not.