Splinters
Sky wasn't supposed to be there.
The camp had been shut down. Officially. After what happened—whatever it was—no one came back.
The signs nailed to trees read: CONDEMNED
UNSAFE STRUCTURE AHEAD
NO TRESPASSING
But that didn't stop him.
He stepped over rusted wire and ducked under fallen beams, boots crunching over damp, brittle leaves. The morning fog curled around his ankles like something alive.
He paused.
"Still feels... wrong," he murmured, his voice swallowed by the woods. "But right."
His breath came out in clouds. Too cold for spring.
The clearing wasn't hard to find.
Even though the paths were overgrown, even though the trees had clawed over old signs and swallowed benches whole—he knew. Like the memory lived in his feet.
He arrived just past dawn. The light was thin. Gray.
The mirror was gone.
But the stump where it had stood—still there. A flat, circular stone embedded in the dirt, ringed with black scorch marks.
Like something had burned its way out.
Sky crouched and ran a hand over the surface.
Cold. Too cold.
He pulled back. His fingertips tingled.
Then he saw it—half-hidden between the roots:
A sliver of glass, no bigger than a coin.
It shimmered, untouched by dirt or decay.
He hesitated.
"This is a bad idea," he whispered.
But his hand moved anyway.
As soon as his fingers closed around it—
flash
His vision tilted.
He saw—
A girl. Soaking wet. Hair like seaweed. Eyes like holes.
Behind her—
A boy. Familiar.
Both staring at him through the glass.
He gasped and staggered back, clutching the shard.
Gone.
He spun around.
No one. Just trees.
Just wind.
That night, Sky dreamed.
He stood at the edge of the woods. Fog coiled like smoke around his legs.
Up ahead: a mirror. Floating. Unsupported. Turning slowly.
His voice cracked the silence.
"Who are you?"
No answer.
He stepped closer.
Inside the mirror—not his reflection.
A dusty attic. A circle of kids. Shadows on the walls. Flickering candlelight.
And there—himself—sitting among them.
His heart pounded.
"I wasn't there," he whispered. "I've never been there."
But the dream didn't care.
---
He jolted awake.
The shard lay on his chest.
It was warm.
The second night, the dream changed.
He was inside the house now. Alone.
The wallpaper peeled like old skin. Boards creaked beneath his steps.
He turned a corner.
A door. Red. Breathing, almost.
Sky reached out.
His voice came in a shaky breath. "Don't open it."
But his fingers found the knob.
Twist—
He woke with a shout.
Sweat soaked his shirt.
His hand throbbed.
He looked down.
A thin cut traced his palm where he'd held the shard.
He lifted it.
No blood.
Not a drop.
His voice trembled: "Where did it go?"
The dreams continued.
Every night, deeper.
Every morning, the shard grew colder.
Clearer.
He stopped telling himself they were just dreams.
Stopped pretending he wasn't afraid.
Because now, before waking, he always heard it:
A whisper, close as breath—
"We remember you."
And last night—
He whispered back:
"Who are you?"
The voice answered.
Not a whisper this time.
A chorus. A memory. A promise.
"You were one of us.