That evening, after the mysterious girl appeared and Finn refused to leave her side, Charlotte lay awake.
The cottage was still, wrapped in hush and dark. Elias slept fitfully beside her, arm still wrapped protectively about her waist, but Charlotte's thoughts buzzed like she had brushed against something holy.
So when she finally drifted off, it was not the usual sort.
It was radiant.
She stood barefoot in an ocean of gauzy, moving starlight. Above her, the sky was lavender, and the wind carried laughter like summer windchimes.
"Late, as always," a voice fell behind her. Familiar. Dry. Affectionate.
Charlotte turned.
There, in the dreamlight, stood Mira.
Not the kid they'd encountered—but the Mira she recalled. Her Mira. A late-twenties girl, full of mischief and radiance. Her black hair flowed softly in an imaginary wind, and her lips smiled with that smile that always whispered, "You think you're winning, but I let you.
She had no shoes. Her dress was like stardust. And although her eyes were cloudy over—blind to sight—they shimmered weakly with an inner light.
Charlotte couldn't talk. Her throat shut down.
"Mira," she whispered. "How?"
Mira came forward, took Charlotte's hands, and radiated.
"I missed you too," she said. "So much that I bargained with things I shouldn't have touched."
Charlotte's heart writhed. "Your eyes…"
"I gave them up," Mira said matter-of-factly, as if saying something was easy to do. "So I could be reborn in your world."
"You what?"
"I remembered the moment I crossed the veil," Mira said, cocking her head like a bird. "And I thought—if there's a way to follow her, I'll pay it. Anything. Just to exist near you again."
"You fool," Charlotte said gently, eyes brimming with tears. "You sweet, stubborn, impossible fool."
"Of course," Mira said, blinking slowly. "You were mine first. My loyalty was never to kingdoms or crowns. It was to you."
A pause.
Then, with a crooked grin: "Also, you're a mess without me. Admit it."
Charlotte laughed through her tears. "A terrible mess," she whispered. "A disaster."
Mira leaned her forehead against Charlotte's. "I can't guarantee I'll remember everything immediately. But even without eyes, I'll make my way to you. Over and over. Until your tale is done."
The dream dissolved.
Charlotte struggled to keep it.
"Mira—wait—will she recall this? The little girl?"
"Not yet," said Mira. "But I will. And I'm coming."
And with those words, the starlight disintegrated
—and Charlotte woke, breath shivering, face wet, holding the memory like a lifeline.
Outside her window, daylight was breaking. The blind girl slept on, curled up beside Finn.
But Charlotte knew now.
She wasn't alone.