I can see you

Chapter 30

                         (ROSY'S POV)

I dreamed about the house again. Not the ruined one Edward took me to. This was the other house the one I almost forgot. The wallpaper was still soft yellow, curling at the corners like old paper. The floor was cold under my feet, and I was holding a toy in my hand, something round and soft. A duck, I think. I used to carry it everywhere.

My brother’s door was slightly open but it was too quiet inside. It was very unlikely of him so out of curiosity I pushed it. Just a little. And there he was.

Lying on the bed. Perfectly still. His arms placed neatly at his sides, not in the way little boys sleep. Like someone had arranged them that way. My throat tightened. I called his name, but no sound came. Then I heard her voice behind me.

“She sleeps in strange places again,” my mother said, like she was talking to someone else. “Always wakes up with these ideas.”

She rested a hand on my shoulder. Her nails were painted perfectly. Red. They were always red.

“He’s fine,” she whispered, bending close to my ear. “You dreamt the rest.”

And I believed her. I always did. I woke up gasping. The ceiling above me was unfamiliar. My hands trembled where they clutched the sheet, like they’d been trying to hold something in the dream that didn’t follow me back.

The memory felt too real to be imagined and too distant to be trusted.

Edward made tea as I watched him from the hallway. His shirt was wrinkled and eyes were tired. He hadn’t slept either. I used to feel better when he was near. Now? I didn’t know.

Every day, it felt harder to tell where the dream stopped and I began. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and the face wouldn’t be mine. Not angry. Not unfamiliar. Just… waiting. Like someone watching from behind the glass, patiently holding the door shut until I was ready to let her out.

Riya.

Edward handed me the teacup. I tasted it, but it was too bitter. I smiled anyway, told him I was going to grab some sugar, and slipped into the kitchen.

The overhead light flickered once, then dimmed to a dull hum. I crouched near the drawer, my hands searching through linen napkins that smelled faintly of dust and forgotten lavender. I wasn’t really cold but I just needed something to do with my hands. Something to feel.

That’s when I felt it. It was not a breeze, or a shadow but something heavier. The weight of being watched.

I turned and there she was. Not Riya. Her.

My mother stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms folded neatly, dressed like she always was for church: white pressed blouse, pearl buttons glinting under the yellow light, shoes polished to a shine no one had asked for.

There wasn’t hate in her eyes. Not quite. Just disappointment.

“You always wanted to be the good one. The clean and sweet one,” she said with a faint smile on her face. “But you’re stitched from the same cloth as me, sweetheart. Same rage. Same rot. No matter how much sugar you add this would not change.”

She stepped closer, heels silent on the wooden floor. I backed up instinctively, sugar forgotten.

“It’s getting harder, isn’t it?” she said, tilting her head, like she was studying a patient, not a daughter. “Staying inside your skin.”

I said nothing.

She gestured vaguely, like it should be obvious. “The thinning. Between who you are and who you were meant to be.”