The twins didn't grow like normal babies.
By the third month, Constance's belly swelled with alarming speed. Her doctors were puzzled, no abnormalities, but something felt… off.
She felt it too.
Some nights, her womb felt like it was burning. One child would kick wildly, violently, until her ribs ached. Then the other would stir, calm and soft, as if trying to soothe her from the inside.
Ray stayed by her side, worried but loving, rubbing her back and reading baby books out loud. But Constance didn't tell him what she truly feared:
They were fighting.
Not in the usual way twins do, this was deeper. Stranger. She could feel the tension. When one was at peace, the other was not. They pulsed like opposite stars trying to burn each other out.
And then came the dream.
The Garden Returned
She found herself again in the underworld garden, though this time it was dying. The trees were withering. The laughter of the children was gone. The air was thick with smoke and sorrow.
The old woman stood among the wilting flowers.
"They are not ready," she said.
Constance stepped forward, panic rising. "They're hurting each other. Why?"
"One remembers. The other resists. Their past has not let go."
"What do you mean?" Constance cried. "They're just babies!"
The woman's eyes glowed white.
"They are never just babies. One tried to kill the other before they were born. And now, the cycle repeats."
At seven months, Constance woke up drenched in blood.
The ambulance lights were too bright. The hospital hallway too long. Everything was noise and terror.
Ray never let go of her hand. Not once.
When she awoke after the emergency surgery, her first words were:
"Are they alive?"
The nurse nodded. "One of them… yes."
One.
Constance's heart broke in silence. She wept for the soul she lost.