CHAPTER SIX

Aila hadn't cried in years.

Not like this.

Not the kind of tears that made her chest cave in, that twisted something deep and unspoken inside her.

She sat curled on the bed, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the shadows cast by the moonlight against the far wall. The house felt too big. The air too still. The silence stretched on, thick and heavy, pressing into her ribs.

She had forgotten Sky.

The realization struck her like a blade to the heart.

How could she?

Her sister's name used to be an anchor, something warm, something real. But over time, it had faded, like an old photograph left too long in the sun. And now, as she tried to summon her face, the details blurred at the edges—her voice, her scent, the way she used to smile.

Aila squeezed her eyes shut.

She thought of the nights after Sky died.

The way her mother barely spoke.

The way her father looked at her, as if seeing a ghost.

The way the walls of their home swelled with silence.

And then, the fights.

Their voices had been muffled behind closed doors, but she heard them anyway. The rage. The grief. The blame. She remembered her mother's sobs, the way her father's voice cracked like splintered wood.

Was that when everything started to fall apart?

Was that why her father left?

The thoughts pressed in, suffocating.

Aila felt hollow. She couldn't do this anymore.

This house, her aunt, the whispers in the walls—she needed to leave. Now. Before she drowned in it.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, she would tell her aunt.

She was going home.

---

Morning came like a whisper, pale light slipping through the curtains, casting strange shapes across her room.

Aila rose slowly, her body heavy, her mind clouded. Last night still clung to her like damp air. She wanted to shake it off, to pretend she hadn't crumbled, but the weight of it stayed.

She found her aunt in the study, seated behind the grand oak desk, fingers trailing idly over the rim of a porcelain teacup. Aila hesitated in the doorway.

Liz glanced up, a soft smile curving her lips.

"You look tired, darling."

Aila stepped inside. She had rehearsed what she would say, but now that she was here, the words twisted in her throat.

"I…" She swallowed. "I think I need to leave."

Her aunt's smile didn't falter, but something flickered in her eyes.

"Leave?" she echoed, setting down her cup.

Aila nodded. "I haven't been sleeping. And I just—" her voice wavered, "—I don't feel right."

Liz watched her carefully, fingers interlacing. "Not feeling right… that's a curious way to put it."

Aila exhaled sharply. "I don't know how else to explain it. I feel like something is watching me. I keep hearing things. Seeing things."

A pause.

Then, her aunt stood. Slowly.

She circled the desk, the soft swish of her dress the only sound in the room.

Aila sat stiffly in the leather chair across from her aunt's desk, fingers twisted in her lap. The air in the study felt thick, the scent of aged books and lavender clinging to the silence between them.

Her aunt sighed, "I was afraid this would happen."

Aila frowned. "Afraid of what?"

Liz hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Your mother and I… We've seen things too."

Aila stiffened. "What do you mean?"

Her aunt walked toward the window, peering outside as if watching for something. "When your mother was younger, she was fine. Never spoke of shadows moving in empty halls, never woke up screaming in the night. Then she came to visit me here." Liz turned, her expression unreadable. "She was twenty-six. And suddenly, the world she knew was no longer the same."

Aila's stomach twisted.

"She would wake in the middle of the night, gasping for air, convinced something was in the room with her. She swore she saw figures in the corners of her eyes. Sometimes, she heard voices whispering in the dark." Liz's voice was eerily calm. "She thought she was losing her mind. And maybe she was."

Aila swallowed hard. "And you think… that's what's happening to me?"

Liz approached, resting a hand on her shoulder. "It runs in the family, Aila. But it only starts when you're here."

Aila shivered at the implication.

Liz's grip tightened slightly. "Your sister… Sky. It started with her too. She was always so strong, so steady. But when she came to stay, everything changed." Her aunt's voice wavered. "She saw things, heard things. It became unbearable."

Aila's breath hitched. "That's why she…?"

Liz looked away, her lips pressing together. "The doctors told us it was a hereditary condition. A type of psychosis that manifests under stress. They gave it a name, but names don't change the truth, do they?" Her eyes met Aila's, dark with something unreadable. "What matters is that it's happening again."

Aila's mind raced. It didn't make sense. If this was just an illness… then why had Theo seen it too? Why did everything feel so much bigger than just hallucinations?

Liz's fingers ghosted over Aila's cheek, a rare show of tenderness. "I just don't want to lose you too."

Aila's heart pounded.

Something about this—about all of it—felt like a warning wrapped in silk.

Aila clenched her fists in her lap, her skin prickling with unease. "But why does it always start here?" Her voice was quiet, but insistent. "Wouldn't you suspect that?"

Liz sighed, walking slowly to a cabinet and pouring herself a glass of something dark. She swirled it absentmindedly before taking a small sip. "This house… it holds memories, Aila. Generations of them. Some places carry burdens we can't explain."

Aila shook her head. "That's not an answer."

Liz turned, her expression unreadable. "It's an observation."

Aila pressed on. "And why is it only us? If this is some kind of… inherited illness, then why don't Alex or Jace see anything?" She hesitated. "Why didn't my father?"

Liz's grip on the glass tightened. "Your father didn't stay long enough."

Aila narrowed her eyes. "That's not an answer either."

Liz let out a slow breath, setting the glass down. She leaned against the edge of her desk, folding her arms. "There are things in bloodlines, Aila. Some inherit eye color. Others inherit afflictions." She paused. "And some inherit sight."

Aila's stomach twisted. "Sight?"

Liz's gaze was sharp, assessing. "We—your mother, your sister, you—are the ones who see. The ones who are seen."

Aila's chest tightened. "That doesn't make sense."

Liz tilted her head slightly. "Doesn't it?"

Aila swallowed, her mind racing. The unease she had felt since the night before curled tighter in her chest.

"It's not an illness, is it?" she whispered.

Liz's lips parted slightly, as if to answer. Then, just as quickly, she pressed them into a thin line.

Aila stared at her aunt, her pulse thrumming in her ears.

For the first time, she felt certain of something.

Her aunt wasn't telling her everything.

Aila felt sick.

This was wrong.

It didn't make sense.

Because Theo saw it too.

She opened her mouth—to say what, she didn't know—but her aunt placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"I know this is difficult, darling," she said. "But the mind plays cruel tricks. I only want to help you."

Aila swallowed hard.

Somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered:

She's lying.

She forced a nod.

Her aunt's fingers lingered for a moment before she pulled away, offering another small smile.

"Get some rest, sweetheart. We'll talk more later."

Aila turned, walking stiffly toward the door.

The moment she stepped out of the study, she let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to her racing heart.

Her mind was screaming.

If what her aunt said was true, then nothing she saw was real.

And yet—

Theo saw it too.

Then how could it only be in her head?