Aira sat cross-legged on the cold floor of her bedroom, the sketchbook open on her lap. Her hands trembled, but the pencil didn’t. It never did.

The first line always felt like slicing skin.

The last one? Like stitching it shut.

Tonight, the pencil moved without hesitation—scratching, carving, dragging black lead into death.

She didn’t know the man she was drawing. Wrinkles like claw marks across his forehead. A scar under his right eye. The kind of face you forget in a crowd but never in a nightmare.

Peter.

She didn’t choose the name. It came to her—like a whisper in a locked room.

In her mind, it played like a film.

He walked his dog through the park at 9:42 PM. Fog clung to the trees like ghosts not ready to let go. The leash was taut in his hand, the dog sniffing at something in the grass. Then—

Footsteps behind him. Light. Careful.

A rope slipped over his head in one silent movement.

His eyes bulged.

The dog barked—frantic, furious.

The rope bit into Peter’s neck, lifting him slightly off the ground. His legs kicked against nothing.

His final breath hissed like a tea kettle, sharp and pathetic.

Aira didn’t blink. She couldn’t.

She added the detail of the crushed larynx.

And the blood from his bitten tongue.

She woke up with the sketchbook stuck to her chest, graphite smeared across her arms. Her mouth tasted like metal.

By noon, it was on the news.

"Peter Hale, 47, found strangled in Northbridge Park. Dog seen barking beside the corpse. No leads."

Aira vomited in the sink. She hadn’t eaten.

She clawed at her scalp, digging her nails into her skin as if she could scratch the images out of her skull.

Her mother knocked on the bathroom door.

“You okay in there?”

Aira stared at the mirror. Her eyes were ringed with black.

She looked like she hadn’t slept in a year.

“Fine,” she lied.

That night, the bathtub called to her.

The water was too hot. Her skin was flushed red, steam licking her neck like a ghost. She stared at the ceiling.

Blank.

Boring.

Safe.

But the thoughts were never safe. Not for long.

What if someone just died right now?

The image burst into her brain like a scream—

A woman, red curls, eyeliner perfect, sipping iced coffee in a small café. She laughed at a message on her phone.

And then—

The door opened.

A man with no face, just smooth skin where features should be, walked in with a clear bottle in his hand.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t hesitate.

He tilted the bottle forward—and liquid hell splashed across her face.

The scream tore through her throat. Her skin bubbled. Her eyes burst like eggs in boiling oil. She fell to the floor, writhing, melting, crying for someone—anyone—to kill her.

Aira gasped, water sloshing in the tub.

She was soaked in sweat. Her fingernails had dug crescents into her thighs.

The next morning:

"Rebecca Lyons, 24, brutally attacked with acid in a local café. Died before paramedics arrived. Police say suspect wore a mask."

The photo on the screen was blurry, but Aira recognized the earrings.

She had drawn them.

Every curve. Every gem.

Her mother screamed when she found the sketchbook open on the floor—Aira’s newest drawing burned into the page like a confession.

Aira sat alone that night. No lights. Just the moon creeping in through the window.

She whispered to herself, hugging her knees.

“What if I’m the killer?”

She shook her head.

“No… no, I just see things. That’s all. I just see.”

But her hands… her hands didn’t agree.

They kept drawing.

Even when she begged them to stop.

This time, it was her own face.

Blood poured from her mouth. Her wrists were slashed. Her eyes were empty.

Underneath, she scrawled the words:

“What if I finally disappear?”

When Aira closed her eyes, she didn’t see darkness.

She saw sunlight.

And that terrified her.

Because sunlight meant memories.

And memories meant traps.

She was nine again.

Small feet brushing over warm grass. Her lemon-yellow dress floated around her knees like soft butter, and jelly sandals clicked as she ran across the garden. That day had been her birthday—balloons tied to the porch rails, a cake with strawberry frosting, and laughter that felt like it could hold the world together.

Her mother had set out a picnic blanket. Her father, arms wide, stood waiting with a giant stuffed giraffe behind his back. He wore a paper crown. She remembered giggling so hard she fell into the roses. The petals had kissed her cheeks.

Aira smiled.

For a moment, she felt safe.

But then… something shifted. Like the memory had changed its mind.

The sunlight dimmed. The warmth faded, leaving her skin cold and tight.

The roses—vivid just a second ago—wilted, their petals curling into blackened edges.

The balloons popped, one by one, not with a soft pop, but a wet, meaty burst.

Aira blinked.

Her father was still standing in front of her, but now… his smile had vanished. His paper crown sagged. His eyes no longer sparkled. They stared, vacant. Too still.

And when she reached for his hand—her favorite part of the memory—it was cold.

Not a breeze-cold.

Dead-cold.

She yanked her hand back, gasping.

But it got worse.

The stuffed giraffe in his arms turned its head. Slowly. Mechanically.

Its button eyes cracked open, revealing milky, veined spheres. Its stitched smile ripped down the middle into a snarling black slit full of sewing needles.

It blinked. Once.

“Happy birthday,” it whispered.

Aira stumbled back, heart pounding.

“No… not this one,” she whispered. “Please not this memory.”

She tried to wake herself up, to escape—

But the garden warped around her, trees bending and groaning like bones under weight. The cupcakes melted into piles of pink sludge. The paper butterflies that had once fluttered above began to move—not like decorations, but like creatures stretching after a long sleep.

They grew. Wings elongating, colors bleeding into sickly bruises. Their bodies twisted into something almost human.

And each one had a mouth.

They hovered around her. Hissing her name.

“Aira... Aira... Aira...”

She covered her ears.

“I didn’t want this,” she sobbed. “I didn’t make this…”

But the memory didn’t care.

She turned toward her nine-year-old self, still sitting on the blanket—smiling, oblivious.

And then blood began to drip from the child’s ears. Thin and slow, like syrup.

Her little smile stayed frozen, even as tears carved crimson streaks down her face.

The adults at the party clapped.

They sang happy birthday.

No one noticed the little girl dying in front of them.

---

Aira jerked awake with a scream, hands over her ears.

Her heart beat against her ribs like it wanted out. She was back in her room—back in her real body—but everything felt wrong.

The air was too heavy. Her mouth was dry with a copper taste. Her hands were shaking.

She looked down.

There were faint crescent marks on her forearms.

Nail imprints. Her own. She had no memory of clawing herself again.

“I can’t even keep one memory,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Just one…”

She sat in the corner of her room, pulling her knees to her chest, head buried between them.

It was happening more often now.

She used to be able to control it—block it out. She’d draw to feel safe, to make beauty out of chaos. But even her drawings turned violent now. The shadows she sketched bled. Smiles warped into gashes.

And the memories—especially the sweet ones—were the most dangerous.

Because they gave her hope.

Just enough hope to rip away.

She stared blankly ahead. Her sketchbook lay across the room, pages curled as if they too were afraid to be opened.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she muttered. “I didn’t want to see this. I didn’t choose it.”

But deep down, Aira wasn’t sure anymore.

What if she had? What if this horror wasn’t infecting her mind—but leaking out of it?

The thought made her stomach twist.

And worse… it made sense.

She buried her face again, trying to squeeze the memory out of her skull. But the image stayed—her nine-year-old self bleeding through a birthday smile.

It wasn’t just a memory anymore.

It was a message.

And Aira didn’t know if she was the victim—or the author.

Aira woke up screaming.

The room was dim, bathed in the pale blue light of dawn. Sweat clung to her like a second skin. Her blanket lay crumpled at the foot of the bed, and her pillow was soaked. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was—only that she had to run. Escape.

Then the clock buzzed gently—6:47 a.m.

The dream still clung to her skin like frost.

The roses.

The melting cupcakes.

Her father’s empty eyes.

The giraffe’s needle-teeth.

And her own nine-year-old face smiling while bleeding from the ears.

She curled into herself, whispering, “It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.”

But it felt real. Too real. Every sound, every smell. She could still taste the frosting. Still feel the stitching of her yellow dress against her skin.

That morning, her sketchbook stayed closed. She didn’t dare open it.

---

At 10:05 a.m., she sat in Dr. Merin’s office, legs pulled tight to her chest on the old green couch.

Dr. Merin was a soft-voiced woman with silver hair and big, owl-like glasses. Her office was too warm and smelled like lemon balm. She always offered tea. Aira never drank it.

“You want to talk about the dream?” the therapist asked gently.

Aira stared at her hands. “It felt like remembering. But… poisoned.”

“Poisoned how?”

“Like something broke in it. Like something went wrong inside the memory and just started eating everything.”

Dr. Merin scribbled gently. “What did it show you?”

Aira hesitated.

“If I say it out loud… will it make it more real?”

“That’s something you get to decide.”

Aira swallowed, her voice trembling. “My dad. His eyes were empty. My birthday—everything was melting. My favorite toy came to life and… talked. But not like a dream. Like I was watching something. Like I was meant to see it.”

Dr. Merin leaned forward. “You mentioned something like this before. That your dreams feel like… glimpses. Are they always violent?”

Aira nodded slowly. “They weren’t before. They are now.”

“And the drawings?”

Aira winced.

Dr. Merin pushed gently. “You said you drew something last week. Something you didn’t recognize.”

“I drew a man,” Aira whispered. “I don’t know why. His throat was open, but he was smiling. It was like… like he wanted to be hurt. The next day, I saw him on the news.”

Dr. Merin blinked. “You saw him?”

“He was dead. Same smile. Same gash. A man they found in the woods. His name was Ronith Kale. I didn’t know him. I didn’t want to draw him.”

The room went still.

Dr. Merin set down her pen.

“Aira,” she said carefully, “You may be experiencing something called hyperphantasia—extremely vivid imagination—and a form of intrusive premonitory delusion.”

Aira stared. “You think I’m making it up in my head.”

“I think your mind is doing what it always does—protecting you, even when it doesn’t feel like protection. But I also think we might need to increase your observation period.”

“You want me back in the center?”

“Just for a little while. Somewhere safe.”

Safe. That word again. Aira didn’t know what it meant anymore.

---