Amelia's heart pounded in her chest.
She didn't move. Didn't breathe. The woman at the door wasn't just looking at Celeste—she was seeing her, like she knew her. Like she had been looking for her.
Celeste's hand found Amelia's wrist, fingers tightening as if anchoring herself to something solid.
Amelia swallowed. "I don't know who you are, but you should leave."
The woman tilted her head slightly, almost amused. "You don't even know what you're protecting, do you?"
Amelia clenched her jaw. "I know enough."
The woman's dark eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through them. "And what do you think you know?"
Amelia felt Celeste tense beside her. "That she's mine," Amelia said, surprising even herself with the sharp edge in her voice.
Celeste's fingers tightened.
The woman's expression didn't change, but the air between them did. It felt heavier, thicker. Like the moment before a thunderclap.
The woman exhaled softly. "She is not yours," she murmured. "She doesn't even belong here."
Amelia's breath caught. The woman took a slow step forward. Amelia stepped back instinctively, blocking Celeste from view.
"You don't understand," the woman continued, her voice lower now, almost gentle. "You think you created her, don't you? That she's just yours because she came from your hands." Her gaze flickered toward the apartment. "But things like her… they don't just appear without consequence."
Amelia felt something sharp coil in her chest.
She wanted to argue, to throw this woman out and lock the door behind her, but something in the way she spoke—like she knew more, like she understood—made Amelia hesitate.
Celeste suddenly spoke, her voice quiet but firm.
"Who are you?" The woman's attention snapped to her.
For the first time, something in her expression softened. "You do remember me," she murmured, almost to herself. Celeste's breath hitched. "I don't—" She shook her head. "I don't know you."
The woman studied her. "Not yet." The words sent an eerie shiver down Amelia's spine.
Celeste stepped forward, just slightly, and Amelia almost reached for her. "You said I don't belong here," Celeste said. "What does that mean?"
The woman was quiet for a moment. Then she exhaled and said—
"You weren't born here, Celeste. You were summoned."
A silence fell over the room.
Celeste froze. Amelia's pulse roared in her ears. "That's—that's not possible." The woman's gaze cut to her. "Then tell me—how did she come to life?" Amelia opened her mouth, but no words came out. Because she couldn't. Because she didn't know.
She had painted Celeste. She had poured her longing, her loneliness, into her. And then—
Magic. Something impossible. A storm. A wish she never spoke aloud. Celeste existed because Amelia had wanted her to. But she had never questioned how.
Never questioned why. The woman must have seen the hesitation in her eyes because she took a step back, as if satisfied.
"There is more to this than you realize," she said, adjusting the sleeve of her coat. "You can pretend you don't believe me. But the longer she stays in this world, the more the cracks will show."
Celeste's fingers twitched. Amelia's voice came out barely above a whisper.
"What do you mean, cracks?"
The woman held her gaze. Then, slowly, she lifted her hand. And pointed—
At Celeste.
At the inside of her wrist. Amelia's breath caught. A thin, almost imperceptible line ran along Celeste's skin. A crack in porcelain. A fracture in glass. Barely there, but undeniable.
And it hadn't been there before. Celeste stared at it, her entire body going still.
"I don't know how long you have," the woman said. "But time is running out."
Then she turned, walking away without another word, disappearing down the hallway and leaving Amelia and Celeste standing there—
Shaken. Silent. And afraid.