Chapter 48: My Little Miracle (Her POV)
The darkness swallowed me whole. The test had begun. I blinked once and the darkness was gone. Sunlight. Warm, soft. A breeze stirring sheer curtains through open windows. The smell of cinnamon and coffee drifting close enough to touch. Blankets tangled around my legs, familiar, safe. Home. I turned my head and there he was. Malvor. Asleep beside me, lashes long against his cheek, breath steady, arm draped across my hip like he'd never let go. Shirtless. Warm. Real.
Then, soft kisses. First my shoulder. Then my neck. "Morning," he murmured, voice thick with sleep, as sweet as I'd ever heard it. "You're still here."
I smiled before I could stop myself. "So are you."
He sat up, grinning. "Be right back. Don't move."
I watched him leave, barefoot, casual, like he belonged in a place like this. Like we did.
"Princess?"
The voice echoed down the hall. Not to me. To someone else. I sat up. He came back. Carrying her. A toddler. Auburn curls spilling like firelight around a tiny face, eyes mismatched, one blue, one tan. She squealed with laughter as he spun her once, then flopped onto the bed beside me, laying her gently between us. Our daughter. My chest tightened. Breath caught.
"Say good morning to Mommy," Malvor said, kissing her curls.
"Morning, Mommy!" she squeaked, tumbling into my arms.
I caught her instinctively. Felt the weight, the warmth, the little hands clinging to my sleeve. Her hair smelled of baby soap and lemon cookies, and my eyes stung before I could stop them.
Malvor slid close, arm over both of us. "We're taking her to the pond today," he said, brushing hair back from my face. "Unless you want skating again."
"The pond," she declared with solemn authority. "The ducks are waiting."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. And the sound, it cracked something open inside me. "Of course they are," I whispered, kissing her hair.
The day unfolded like a stolen dream. Tickles and giggles. Malvor doing ridiculous voices, pretending to narrate life as a stuffed toy gone wrong. Her curls bouncing as she stomped along to invisible music.
The park in the afternoon. Sunlight golden and low, breeze threading the trees. Picnic blanket stretched beneath an oak, sandwiches abandoned for grapes and carrots. She ran to the pond, tiny fist clutching a plastic bag. "Come on! They're hungry!"
We followed. Watched as she doled out grapes to "Sir Quackers," carrots to "Lady Fluffbill," stern words for "No Nap Nigel," who'd apparently misbehaved last week.
"She is very serious about her ducks," Malvor whispered.
"She is you," I whispered back. And my heart cracked all over again.
Dinner was with my parents. I don't know how, I don't know why, but they were there. My mother: the older version of me. Same smile, same worry tucked neatly behind her eyes, hair streaked with gray. She hugged me so tightly I thought I'd break. My father: quiet, sharp-eyed, silver-haired. He kissed my temple and told me he was proud. Proud of me. Proud of this family I'd built. The table was scratched and worn, the chairs mismatched, the placemats faded, but the air smelled of tomato sauce and oregano and home.
One bite of spaghetti, and I nearly cried. It tasted exactly like it always had. Malvor sat across, laughing with my father like they'd known each other forever. Our daughter sat between us, swinging her little legs, face smeared red with sauce, grinning at everyone like joy itself. No magic. No chaos. No scars. Just life. Just home. I didn't question it.
We tucked her into bed in a room painted cream, moons fading on the walls, a lavender blanket, a worn dragon clutched to her chest. Malvor read too many voices from a book. I sang half a lullaby. She wrapped her arms around my neck, kissed my cheek, and whispered, "Night night, Mama."
I whispered back, "Good night, my little miracle."
The words felt like they belonged. Like they'd been waiting for me to say them. It hit me, her name. It rang through me like a bell. Mireya. My little miracle. I hadn't remembered until now. But the moment the name formed, it burned with truth. Mireya. The child we had prayed for, hoped for. Prayed to who? My stomach twisted.
I stood in the doorway, watching Malvor tuck her in, joy softening his whole face. Too soft. Too happy. Too whole. I smiled. But the smile trembled. Because this was perfect. But perfect had never been mine.
That night, after the lights were out and we curled into bed, I couldn't sleep. The sheets were soft. The pillows perfect. His arm wrapped warm around my waist. He pressed a kiss to my shoulder before drifting off. Everything was perfect. Too perfect.
I stared at the ceiling, heartbeat slow and steady, but wrong. I tried to remember. Not Mireya. Not the ducks or the park. Not the laughter. Before. What came before?
I searched for grief. For anger. For pain. All I found was happiness. Laughter. Kisses. Joy. No shadows. No scars. No memory of earning any of it.
My brow furrowed. Slowly, I turned, careful not to wake him. His face in sleep was peaceful. Too peaceful.
For the first time, it scared me.
His breathing wasn't just steady, it was too steady. Like the room itself was breathing for him. Like he'd never done anything but sleep peacefully beside me.
I started to wonder if he was part of the dream too.
His eyes opened. Slow. Warm. They locked with mine, and he smiled that easy grin that usually made my heart stumble. "Everything's fine," he murmured, thick with sleep. "You're safe. We're okay."
He kissed me, slow, tender. It felt… wrong. Not harsh. Not cold. Just empty. Warm lips, flat affection. Spearmint and soap instead of brown sugar and spice. All form, no soul. When his hand slid down my waist, it wasn't seeking me. It was claiming me. No teasing. No reverence. Only expectation. Routine.
My breath caught, not from desire but from the eerie wrongness of it. He didn't notice. Something told me he never noticed.
"Relax," he whispered. "You love this. Don't you remember?"
My pulse spiked. He pressed me into the bed, guiding me like it was scripted. Like he'd done it a thousand times before. But not with me. Not really.
Something inside me screamed, this wasn't him.
I didn't move. Didn't stop him. Because some part of me, the dream-version of me, had learned that pushing back only made it worse.
He kissed me harder. "There you go," he murmured, hand slipping beneath the blankets, possessive, practiced. "Just let go. You always feel better after."
I stared at the ceiling, eyes wide, waiting for it to be over. The room pulsed. Just once. Like the dream shivered, sensing me slipping away. He lowered his head to my neck. "You're overthinking again. Just be here. With me."
His weight pressed between my thighs. My chest heaved.
"Mal—" I tried, but he shushed me, kissing down my collarbone. "Let me love you."
But it wasn't love. Not this. Not him. It was a performance. A loop. A cage wrapped in warmth.
I shoved at his chest. Weak. Hesitant. "No."
His head tilted, confused."What's wrong?" he asked, too calm, too smooth.
"I said no."
He blinked, leaned in again. "You don't mean that. You always say that when you're tired."
Panic clawed up my throat. "This isn't real. You're not—"
In the darkness of the house—
"Mama!"
A cry down the hall. High. Fragile. Real. Everything stopped. I froze. Heart pounding.
The false Malvor softened instantly. "It's okay," he said gently. "She just had a nightmare. Go to her. She needs you."
The words were perfect. Too perfect. But the cry came again, "Mama!"
Instinct drowned the doubt. I slipped from beneath him, unsteady, lungs burning, and opened the door.
There she was. Mireya. Barefoot in the hall, cheeks wet with tears, clutching her stuffed dragon. "I had a bad dream," she whispered. "I dreamed you left me."
I dropped to my knees. All panic vanished. I opened my arms, and she ran into them. Soft. Warm. Trembling. I held her tight.
Behind me, the false Malvor leaned in the doorway, watching with quiet approval. "See?" he said softly. "This is your life now. Safe. Whole. Everything you ever wanted."
This is everything I ever wanted. A child. I buried my face in Mireya's curls. Even if it was a lie, Even if it wasn't real, She felt real. I held her through the night, torn between the comfort of the dream and the gnawing certainty that something inside it was deeply, terribly wrong.
I woke to laughter. To the sound of something burning in the kitchen. Morning light poured through gauzy curtains, golden and gentle. For one second, I let myself believe. I smelled the coffee. I sat up, rubbing my eyes as Malvor walked in, flour on his cheek, mug in his hand.
"Morning, babe," he grinned, setting the cup down. "Brought you your usual."
I lifted the mug, took one sip, and almost gagged. Burnt. Bitter. Somehow both scalding and lukewarm. No sweetness. No balance. I stared down into the cup like it had betrayed me. He's never made me a bad cup of coffee. Not once. Not in all the months I'd lived with him. No matter how tired, how chaotic, his coffee was always divine. Always perfect. He'd once remade an entire pot because I said it tasted tired.
And now—
This.
The thought hit me like a stone to the chest. Months. I had been in Arbor for months. But this, this wasn't Arbor. Arbor. Who was Arbor? The house? That didn't make sense. That couldn't be real. This wasn't real. The floor of my thoughts shifted, slippery, ready to crack—
"Mommy!" Mireya's voice rang down the hall.
I looked up, and there she was, standing in the doorway with wild curls, flour dusting her pajamas like snow. A wooden spoon brandished like a sword. "Come help! Daddy is not good at this."
From the kitchen: Malvor's laugh. "Hey!"
Despite myself, I smiled. Soft. Sad. Sweet.
I set the coffee mug down like it might bite me again and padded barefoot toward the chaos. The kitchen was a battlefield. Burning pancakes on the stove, syrup smeared across the counter like a sticky confetti explosion. Mireya reached for me immediately. "Help me flip the next ones? He keeps making them weird shapes."
"They are dinosaurs," Malvor said indignantly.
"They're blobs," Mireya whispered, dead serious, as though betrayal had never cut deeper. I picked up the spatula, slid behind her, arms wrapped around her small frame as we lifted the pancake together. The heat of the stove. The giggle of my daughter. The absurd, homey chaos of breakfast. It all looked right. But the taste of the coffee lingered on my tongue like ash. Deep down, I knew. This wasn't home.
Malvor handed me a to-go cup, thankfully not made by him this time, and kissed my forehead. "I've gotta head to work."
Work? My brow furrowed. "Wait… what do you do again?"
He grinned, adjusting his wrinkled tie in the mirror. Cheap suit, peeling seams. Just for a flicker, I saw him differently, dark silk, gold cufflinks, a grin sharp as broken glass. Then it was gone. Polyester again.
He kept talking. "Those ones and zeroes don't write themselves. Big launch coming up. Stress levels at a solid eleven." He pantomimed typing in the air. A programmer. Of course.
I nodded slowly. "Right. Okay."
"I'll take Mirrie to preschool on the way."
My daughter burst in, a cape swirling behind her sparkly, mismatched shoes. "I am the princess and the superhero today!"
Malvor bowed dramatically. "Your majesty."
I knelt, tying her shoes, my fingers steady while my mind churned static. I kissed them both goodbye, waved as they drove away in a silver sedan I didn't remember owning. I closed the door. The silence pressed in.
The laptop waited on the table, lid half-open like it had been there all along. I sat down. Because I was a writer. Wasn't I? The screen blinked to life. Not a novel. Not the stories that set my soul on fire. Just proofreading. Technical copy. Dry blog drafts about dental tools. I read a paragraph three times and remembered nothing. Each word was dust. Clicking through folders, I searched for me. For anything real.
Then I saw it. A black folder with no name, tucked into neat rows of nothing. My hand hovered. Then I opened it. Inside: one document. Her Life, Rewritten. The words pulsed when I clicked it. They breathed. Real. Strange. Familiar.
It was a story by an author called Callista Wildfire. About a woman who lived in a lie so perfect she forgot what she had lost. A woman with runes carved into her skin. A house that loved her. A god who held her through nightmares. My breath hitched.
The world flickered. Just once. Like a lightbulb before it bursts.
Suddenly, the phone rang. Shrill. Jarring. Too loud, too real. I answered with shaking hands. "Hello?"
The voice on the other end crackled, both close and impossibly far. "Is this Mrs. Theóskakó? Your daughter is not feeling well. She's in the nurse's office asking for you."
My throat went dry. "My… my daughter?"
"Yes, ma'am. Mireya. Mild fever. She says she wants her mom."
"I, I'll be right there." The line went dead. I stood frozen, phone still clutched tight, as the room thinned around me. Colors drained. Corners bled static. Like the dream knew I'd caught it and was pulling tighter. But I shoved my feet into shoes, grabbed keys, and moved like a mother on autopilot. Because my daughter needed me.
The drive was a blur of perfect, soft roads. Trees swaying without wind. Houses too neat, too new, too calm. The preschool looked painted in pastels. Teachers smiled with porcelain cheer. Mireya waited in the nurse's office, cheeks flushed, curls plastered damp to her skin. When she saw me, she leapt from the cot.
"Mama!"
I caught her in my arms, and she clung like she'd been lost for years.
"You don't look sick," I whispered.
She giggled, voice small but sure. "I feel better now. 'Cause you're here."
My heart clenched, split, bled. I held her tighter. "Let's go home," I whispered. Even though I knew. This wasn't home.
We drove in silence at first. Mireya hummed in the back seat, her legs swinging, her spoon-sword clutched like treasure. My mind kept drifting, back to the document, back to the taste of ash-coffee, back to the static flicker at the edges of everything—
"Mommy, look!" she squealed. "That cloud looks like a dragon!"
I jumped. My grip on the wheel tightened. "A dragon?"
"Yes! But a nice dragon."
"Of course," I said.
A few seconds passed before her voice floated forward again. "Can we paint when we get home? And make cookies? And play the animal game?"
"Maybe, baby," I murmured. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
"Mama?"
"Yes?"
"Are you listening?"
Her eyes met mine in the mirror. Big. Bright. Trusting. Real. Just like that, I felt it, the pull. That perfect lie tugging me back into place. Because what kind of mother walks away from her child? Even one who might not exist. Back home, the kitchen was spotless. Too spotless. The recipe already waiting. The oven already warm. An apron already tied neat around my waist. Though I didn't remember tying it.
Mireya hummed beside me on a stool, sticky hands dropping chocolate chips into the bowl. "Cookies, cookies, cookies," she sang. "I like mine gooey. Like Daddy makes 'em!"
I stirred the dough slowly. Methodical. My mind miles away, caught on that black folder: Her Life, Rewritten.
Caught on toothpaste kisses. Bad coffee. On how the girl beside me was named Mireya, miracle, but carried no scars, no shadows, no price.
"Mama," she chirped. "Can I lick the spoon?"
I didn't answer. The runes pulsed in my memory. The scars. The ache of something real. Something earned.
"Mama." Sharper.
I blinked. Looked down. Her wide eyes were still sweet. Still childlike. But too sharp. Watching me too closely.
"You're not listening," she whined.
I forced a smile. "Sorry, baby. Just thinking."
"We're baking cookies," she said, almost accusing. "Together. You love this."
"Right," I whispered. "Of course I do."
I handed her the spoon and turned for the tray. Behind me, her humming went louder. Off-key. Flour spilled across the floor. "Oops," she said, without a shred of apology. My skin prickled. "Mama," she said again. Closer now. "You're not happy."
My hand froze on the oven door. When I turned, she wasn't just my daughter anymore. Her fists clenched at her sides. Flour on her cheeks looked like ash. Her curls too stiff, like paint dried wrong. "You're not supposed to be sad here," she said flatly. "You're ruining it. You should smile more. Before the marks, you smiled more."
I breathed slow. "It's okay to be sad sometimes, baby. Even in good places."
"No," she snapped, voice sharp and hollow. "You're not supposed to want to leave."
The illusion cracked. The spoon clattered to the ground. She didn't flinch.
"Sit down, Mommy," she said. "We are not done yet."
But I didn't flinch either. I smiled. A slow, dangerous thing. "Oh no, little girl," I whispered, my voice velvet and iron. "I've met the true Lord of Chaos. Held him while he broke. Danced with him through madness. Loved him through it."
I stepped forward. The floor flickered under my feet like bad signal. "You think you scare me?" Another step. The puppet shrank. "You think this is power? You're nothing. Our real daughter will be terrifying in the best way. Born of chaos and fire and impossible love. She'll ride warhorses, bite her uncles, and bend illusions before she learns her letters."
I leaned down, eye to eye with the thing that wore Mireya's face. "You're just a distraction."
I turned my back. The scream split the air. Not a child's scream, a banshee's howl, walls melting into shadow, black ichor dripping from the ceiling. Cabinets burst. The floor cracked wide. But I walked. "You're not real," I said. "He is. We are."
The front door appeared, flickering at the edges. I reached for it.
"MAMA!" the creature shrieked behind me.
My hand closed on the handle. A voice slid inside me, soft as lullaby: If you come back it could be real, I could do better. This can be real. I'll make you happy Mama. Please Mama. Come back.
I froze. So tempted. Knowing I could be happy. this could be so easy. But I didn't turn around I walked closer to the end.
You'll forget her face.
You'll forget her laughter.
You will never have this. Never have a child.
A heartbeat of grief. Of doubt. Because I knew it was true. The moment I stepped through, Mireya, the curls, the sticky fingers, the way she called me Mama, would vanish. A miracle I never truly had. My eyes burned. My chest split open with the ache of it. But I didn't let go. I turned the handle. Stepped forward and let the lie die behind me.
Leyla stood at the edge of the shadows, her form all smoke and starlight, her eyes gleaming like twin galaxies. Curiosity burned there, and something else. Something that almost looked like pride. "You escaped perfection," she said, her voice a silk thread winding through the dark. "I am impressed."
I stood tall, shoulders squared, though my pulse thundered in my ears. "I knew the child was the only thing that might have worked against you," she went on, stepping closer, circling. "Most are given sorrow. Pain. Loss. And they never leave. But that would not have worked on you, would it?"
I didn't answer. I didn't need to. Her head tilted, studying me as if I were some rare bloom forcing its way out of stone. "You passed," she said at last. "So I will give you something else. Something no one else will. A truth carved from your mind long ago. A memory the priests tried to erase."
The shadows stirred, then froze.
Her body went rigid. Galaxies blinked out in her eyes, swallowed by void. When she spoke again, the voice wasn't hers. It was older. Cracked. Stone grinding against stone. "If Aerion dies," it rasped, "the seals will begin to weaken. And something older than the gods will wake."
I flinched. "Seals?"
Leyla didn't respond. The voice poured through her, layered and terrible: "The Pantheon does not stand because we are strong. It stands because something worse agreed not to notice us."
The darkness pulsed, pressing into my ribs like weight I couldn't hold. "You are not the first to bear the runes. You are the last to carry the key. Do not seek the door."
Leyla gasped, stumbling like she'd been shaken from a dream. Her eyes flared back to starlight, flickering confusion. "…What? What just happened?"
I stared at her, chest tight, breath shallow. The words burned in my bones. Don't seek the door. "Did I say something?" she asked.
I shook my head. "Nothing," I lied. Because I couldn't give that truth away. Not yet. Maybe not ever. My hands curled into fists at my sides. That hadn't been a gift. It had been a crack in the mirror. A warning.
I lifted my chin. "Will you activate my rune?"
Her mouth curled into something that was almost a grin. "I will."
My eyes narrowed. "What will it cost me?"
Her smoke shifted, her form circling me in slow, unraveling steps.
"What do you want it to cost?"
The question cut me deep. Because I didn't know if I wanted it to be easy, or if I wanted to bleed.
"So tell me, Rune-Carved," her voice wove through the dark. "What price will you pay for power?"
"Name it," I said. No hesitation.
Her smile turned sharp, amused. "Always so quick to give. That is what made you breakable once. But not anymore."
She stopped in front of me, galaxies spinning in her eyes. "You have reclaimed your body. You have fought for your choices. Carried pain as armor, and love as a blade."
Her hand slid down my forearm, cool, deliberate, resting where the old rune still slept beneath my skin. "But your voice… you have only just begun to wield that."
My throat tightened.
"I will awaken your rune," she said. "But you will not speak. Not a word. Not a whisper. You will try, and nothing will come."
My mouth parted, protest ready but she lifted her hand.
"Not a curse. A promise. Learn the language of silence. Of shadows. Of presence. That is where power lives. Not in noise. When you claim power over your voice you will have it back. The things you have silenced have been revealed. The secrets will not remain secret."
"Do you accept?"
I nodded the shadows surged. Light tore up my arm in violent violet waves, claws beneath my skin dragging secrets to the surface. My bones burned hollow, then filled with something older than air. My body convulsed, my mouth opened wide. Nothing. Not a sound. Not even a gasp.
Silence, absolute. Leyla's smile was regal. Distant. "Your silence begins now."
With that, she pressed her star glowing palm to my arm. The rune on my forearm blazed, violet flame licking out of my skin, alive, awakened, and waiting.
When the shadows fell away, I was standing at the edge of Arbor. Mist coiled through the garden. The silver-etched black door towered before me. Home. I raised a trembling hand and rang the bell. The door swung open instantly.
Malvor stood there, hair mussed like he'd been pacing, coffee in one hand. His grin broke wide the moment he saw me. "Annie," he breathed. "Hi, Annie, my love."
I didn't speak. I just threw myself into his arms. He staggered but caught me, holding me so tightly I thought he'd never let go. His lips pressed to my temple, my hair, my cheek.
"I missed you," he murmured. "I was going to pretend not to, but I did. Arbor missed you too, it started killing all the plants. I think it was mourning."
I buried my face against his chest. Clung like the silence might swallow me whole if I let go. He rubbed circles into my back, humming something off-key. "Want coffee? Want to go to bed? Or should I ask what horrors Leyla put you through?"
Still, I said nothing. Just held tighter. "Gods, you smell like shadows and secrets. Did she dip you in nightmare soup again?"
No answer. He pulled back finally, eyes searching. "Hey… Annie?"
I looked up, lashes wet, lips parted, still no words.
"…Annie?" He cupped my face. "You're not hurt, are you?"
I shook my head.
"Then what—" I saw it land in him. The silence. His heart stuttered. "…Say something," he whispered, voice cracking.
I only kissed his palm. He stepped back, shaken, pale. "What did she take from you?" He looked me over almost frantic. "Your voice? She took it?"
Tears stung my eyes. I reached up, traced his lips with my fingers, then curled my hand into the shape of I love you. His knees almost buckled. He pulled me close again, arms locking around me like he could hold the silence at bay.
"Okay," he whispered fiercely. "Okay. Then I'll speak enough for both of us." In that moment, in his arms, I believed him. Even in silence. Especially in silence.