The city felt different that night.
It was the same skyline, the same rush of distant sirens and murmuring streets, but something about it felt… off. The air was heavier, charged, as if the universe itself was holding its breath. The lights outside flickered in their neon brilliance, taxis wove through traffic, and the hum of life continued. But Celeste felt separate from it all—like she wasn't meant to be there, like she was standing just outside reality, watching through a glass pane.
She stood by the window, fingertips resting against the cool glass, eyes unfocused as the city stretched far beyond her sight. She wasn't looking at it. Not really. She was looking at her reflection.
At the thin, hairline crack on her wrist.
It was still there.
Still spreading.
Celeste lifted her arm slightly, turning her wrist under the dim light of the apartment, watching how the fracture caught the glow, almost shimmering. It didn't look like a normal mark. It didn't look like a wound. It looked like something else.
Something is wrong.
She traced it lightly, her fingers ghosting over smooth skin. It didn't hurt. It didn't bleed. But it was a reminder—of the woman's words, of the uncertainty settling like stone in her chest.
You weren't born here. You were summoned.
The thought sent a chill down her spine.
She swallowed, trying to push it down. No. No, that's ridiculous. I'm real. I'm here.
But the crack remained. And deep down, no matter how much she tried to deny it, something inside her whispered that this was only the beginning.
Behind her, Amelia sat at her desk, flipping through the pages of an old book, her brows furrowed in frustration. The lamplight illuminated her face, casting sharp shadows across her cheekbones. She had been like this for hours—digging through research, searching for anything that could explain what was happening. The soft scratch of pen against paper filled the room, an occasional huff of frustration escaping Amelia's lips as she crossed out yet another useless note.
Celeste watched her from across the room, feeling an ache settle in her chest. She hated seeing Amelia like this—so desperate, so tense, so afraid.
"We need to understand it," Amelia muttered, more to herself than to Celeste. "If magic brought you here, then there has to be a way to—" She stopped abruptly, biting her lip.
Celeste turned fully. "To what?"
Amelia hesitated, fingers tightening around the edge of the book before she finally whispered, "To make sure you stay."
Celeste's throat tightened.
She walked toward Amelia, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. The warmth of her skin against Amelia's was grounding, real. She wanted Amelia to feel that—to know she was real.
"You don't have to do this alone," Celeste murmured.
Amelia exhaled, her body instinctively leaning into Celeste's touch. "I just—" Her voice cracked. "I can't lose you, Celeste."
The vulnerability in her voice was like a blade, sharp and aching.
Celeste ran her fingers along Amelia's shoulder, feeling the tension coiled beneath her skin. "I don't want to leave."
The words were true. But something inside her—a deep, buried instinct—whispered that she might not have a choice.
Because the crack on her wrist wasn't fading.
It was growing.
An hour passed, then another.
The books on Amelia's desk piled higher, but the answers they needed didn't come. The room smelled like old pages and candle wax, the air thick with an unspoken desperation.
Celeste lay sprawled on Amelia's bed, staring at the ceiling. Every time she blinked, she saw it. The crack. Expanding, inch by inch, like fractures in glass before it shatters.
She had tried to ignore it. Tried to convince herself it was just her imagination. But she could feel it now.
Something beneath her skin.
Something is shifting.
Amelia sighed heavily, rubbing her hands down her face. "There's nothing." Her voice was thick with frustration. "Nothing about magic like this, nothing about people coming from paintings, nothing about what happens when—" She cut herself off again.
Celeste propped herself up on her elbows. "When what?"
Amelia hesitated. Then, with a quiet, almost broken voice, she said it. "When they start breaking."
Celeste froze.
The words hit her like ice, settling in the pit of her stomach.
She sat up fully, curling her fingers into the fabric of the blanket. "You think I'm… breaking?"
Amelia opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"You do," Celeste whispered. "You think I'm—" She swallowed hard. "—falling apart."
"I don't know," Amelia admitted, and she sounded almost pained by it. "But this—" she gestured toward Celeste's wrist, "—this isn't just some random mark. And I can't find anything that explains it."
Celeste let out a slow, shaky breath, her fingers tracing the crack again, pressing against it like she could force it to disappear.
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Amelia spoke again. "I think we need help."
Celeste looked up sharply. "Help from who?"
Amelia hesitated. Then—"An art restorer."
Celeste frowned. "An art restorer?"
"She's not just an art restorer," Amelia corrected quickly, standing up, running a hand through her hair. "She knows things. Weird things. And if anyone understands what happens when paintings—when art—starts breaking…" She met Celeste's eyes. "It's her."
A deep unease settled in Celeste's stomach.
"Have you told her about me?" she asked carefully.
Amelia hesitated. "No."
"Does she even know magic like this exists?"
Amelia exhaled. "I don't know. But she's the closest thing to an expert I can think of."
Celeste swallowed, staring down at her wrist again.
If Amelia was right—if she was breaking—then she didn't have time to be afraid.
Because cracks only grew.
And eventually, everything shattered.