She didn't remember walking here.
The corridor was long and too white, the kind of white that made her eyes ache. The world outside it had gone quiet—as if someone had pressed pause on everything else.
Eliza stood before a door.
It looked… normal. Not grand, not eerie. Just a door—painted beige, with a chipped handle and a little brass plaque hanging crookedly. There were no screams behind it, no ominous pull.
Only stillness.
And yet her hand trembled as she reached for the knob.
It turned easily. The door opened with a soft creak.
Warm light spilled into her face.
Inside was a hospital room—silent, sterile, and timeless. The air smelled faintly of alcohol swabs and plastic curtains. No machines beeped. No nurses bustled.
In the middle of the room was a bed.
And in that bed… was her.
She looked too familiar except maybe a lot younger than her current self.
Pale against the sheets, her hair spread across the pillow, face turned ever so slightly toward the ceiling. A thin hospital gown hung over her narrow frame, and her arms lay limp at her sides. She looked like she'd been asleep for years.
Or longer.
Eliza stepped in. Her boots made no sound. Even her breath felt unwelcome here.
She stopped in the middle of room and stared at person lying on the be
There was something painful in seeing herself like this. So still. So empty. It didn't feel like a dream. It felt like a part of her—something she didn't realize had been torn away long ago—was lying right in front of her, waiting for her to come back.
"Do you remember when you gave up?"
The voice came from behind her.
Eliza turned.
A boy stood in the corner. Maybe seven or eight, barefoot, in a too-large white shirt. His eyes were dark, deep, and older than they should've been. He didn't look threatening. If anything, he looked… tired.
"You never said it out loud," the boy continued. "But you did. You let her die."
Eliza stared at him.
"What is this?"
The boy's expression didn't change. "You left her behind. That girl in the bed. She used to cry every night. Do you remember that? Crying so hard it felt like her ribs might snap. And no one came."
Eliza looked away.
"This side of me was weak and I had to move on " she said quietly.
"She didn't," the boy said.
He walked slowly to the bedside, the fabric of his shirt brushing softly against his knees. He climbed up beside the still body and sat there, legs crossed, his small hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from the sleeping girl's face.
"She stayed here. With the hurt. With the waiting."
The boy looked up at her.
He leaned down, placing his ear on the chest of the girl on the bed. A long silence passed.
"She's still breathing," he whispered. "Barely."
Eliza took a step forward, unsure whether she meant to stop him or comfort her double. But her limbs felt heavy. Wrong.
"She doesn't belong here anymore," she murmured.
"She doesn't belong anywhere," the boy said. "Not in your world. Not in hers."
He sat up and looked at Eliza.
"Do you want her back?"
Eliza hesitated.
She looked at the girl on the bed and saw it then—not just the resemblance, not just the body—but the pieces she'd buried. The fear. The softness. The need to be held. The part of her that used to reach out for her mother in the dark.
The part she'd learned to hide to survive.
"why …" Her voice caught, why would I want to be weak again, looked down on and always called worthless that I can't much up to my mother's previous status. "
The boy tilted his head. "So you'll leave her?This is type of person you have become, evil and ambitious seeking power and risking your friends' lives to get what you want. "
"No!" she snapped, her voice cracking.
But the room fell silent again.
The boy watched her for a moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, glinting blade. It looked almost like a child's toy. Dull, scratched, and silver.
Eliza's chest tightened.
No—wait—" Eliza whispered, struggling to lift her arms. Nothing worked. She couldn't even blink properly. Her feet were rooted to the floor, her breath shallow.
He raised the blade slowly.
"Eliza, please—" the words tumbled from her lips, but she wasn't sure who she was begging. The boy? Herself?
The girl on the bed twitched.
Eyes opened. Barely.
And for one devastating moment… they met hers.
She saw herself. Not as she was now, but as she had been.
Small.
Lonely.
Hopeful.
Then the child drove the blade into her chest.
It ripped through her lungs, her ribs. Her heart seized, a searing line of agony pulsing through her as if she'd been stabbed instead.
She couldn't fall.
She was trapped in her own body, suspended in air, feeling every ounce of pain ripple from the girl in the bed into her.
Tears blurred her vision as her mouth opened, but no sound came. The pain wasn't unbearable—but it was intimate, sickening.
She wanted to scream, but no sound came. She wanted to run to the bed, to shake her other self awake, but her legs wouldn't move.
"Why…?" she gasped, tears slipping down her cheeks. "Why are you doing this…?"
The boy didn't look at her.
Blood didn't gush. It didn't need to. It sank into the sheets silently, the way old grief does—quiet, invisible to others, but impossible to hide from yourself.
The girl on the bed exhaled. Not in fear. In release.
Her eyes didn't close—they faded.
Like stars blinking out before dawn.
Eliza crumpled inside her own body.
The boy stood and hopped down from the bed, his expression blank.
"She was soft," he said. "You hated, that see the type of person you have become. I hope you can give up on your ambitions and suffer the punishment for your sins. "
For a breathless second, those blue eyes met Eliza's. Glassy. Soft. And not angry.
Just… tired.
A faint smile trembled on her lips.
Just the quiet exhale of something leaving.
The girl's eyes stayed open a moment longer, then gently closed.
The boy withdrew the blade and climbed down,letting the light drain from the room
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