The house had grown louder since Mom died.
Every whisper of wind became a voice.
Every creak, a warning.
And every night at nine, the ritual began.
Daniel would bring me tea — always chamomile with honey. Always warm. Always served with that same gentle smile.
“It’ll help you sleep,” he’d say. “You’ve been through enough.”
And for months, I believed him.
The old family home was far too big for two. Its ceilings sagged, its walls sighed, and its hallways seemed to stretch longer every time I walked them. The wallpaper had faded into the same yellow-grey as the memories I tried to forget.
After Mom’s funeral, Daniel and I barely spoke of her. He said it hurt too much. He said we needed peace.
But I could never shake the feeling that there were things left unsaid — things hidden behind the polite silence that hung between us like dust in sunlight.
Lately, the tea made me drowsy. Too drowsy.
Sometimes, I’d wake up in bed though I swore I’d fallen asleep in the living room.
Other times, I’d wake to faint bruises on my arms or the scent of antiseptic in my room.
When I asked Daniel about it, he’d chuckle softly.
“You always were restless,” he’d say. “You probably bumped into something in your sleep.”
He never looked me in the eye when he said it.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I waited until I heard Daniel’s footsteps fade down the hallway before slipping from bed. The grandfather clock struck 9:00. The air tasted of honey and metal.
From the kitchen doorway, I watched.
Daniel stood by the stove, stirring two cups of tea. The kettle hissed softly. His back was straight, his movements measured — the way a surgeon might prepare for something delicate.
Then his hand dipped into his pocket.
I saw him pull out something small and pale — a powdery capsule — and let it dissolve into one cup.
He stirred once, twice, clockwise.
My heart thudded so loudly I was sure he could hear.
Then, as if on cue, his head turned. Our eyes met.
He smiled.
“Just valerian,” he said smoothly, as if rehearsed. “Helps you relax.”
But there was something else in that smile.
A flicker of something cold.
Something that didn’t belong to my brother.
Later, I pretended to drink. He sat across from me, sipping his tea calmly, his eyes studying me over the rim of his cup.
When he left for bed, I poured mine into the sink. The liquid swirled gold and cloudy under the faucet — and smelled faintly of almonds.
That’s when I knew.
It wasn’t valerian.
It was poison.
Or worse — something that didn’t kill right away.
For three nights, I refused the tea. Told him I’d switched to water. Each time, Daniel frowned — only slightly, but enough for me to see the strain in his jaw.
“You’re not sleeping well,” he said. “You look… worse.”
He began watching me more closely. I could feel his gaze even when he wasn’t there — from the shadows of the hallway, from behind half-closed doors.
So I started watching him back.
The next evening, while he was out running errands, I searched his room.
Everything was meticulously arranged — drawers lined, books dusted, bed folded military-tight. But beneath the floorboard near the window, I found something.
A small tin box.
Inside — a photograph of Mom. But not the one from her funeral.
She was younger, radiant, smiling. Standing in the garden… next to a man who wasn’t our father.
Tucked behind it was a folded letter, yellowed with age.
It read:
Daniel, please understand. She can’t know. The truth would destroy her. You have to protect her, no matter what it takes.
— M.
I felt my stomach twist.
She can’t know.
Who was “she”? Me?
And protect her from what?
I didn’t hear Daniel return until it was too late. The door creaked open behind me.
He stood there, calm as ever. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
I froze, the letter trembling in my hand. “What is this, Daniel? What have you been—”
He stepped forward, closing the distance. “It’s time you knew,” he said softly.
Then the world went black.
I woke in the basement.
My head throbbed. The air was damp and smelled faintly of mold and iron. My wrists were bound, but not tightly — as if Daniel wanted restraint, not pain.
He sat nearby, the teapot on the workbench beside him. Steam curled into the air.
“I didn’t want it to be like this,” he murmured. “I tried to keep you safe.”
“Safe?” My voice was hoarse. “By drugging me? By lying?”
He sighed, rubbing his temples. “You were never supposed to remember.”
“Remember what?”
Daniel looked up — and for the first time, his composure cracked. His eyes were wet.
“Mom didn’t die the way you think she did.”
He poured himself a cup of tea, his hands shaking slightly.
“She wasn’t sick,” he continued. “She was… trying to protect you. From what you are.”
My pulse raced. “What I am?”
He nodded slowly. “Do you remember the night she died?”
I tried. There were flashes — lightning, shouting, a scream. Then nothing. Just the smell of something burning.
“She called me that night,” Daniel said. “Told me you were changing again. That the medicine wasn’t working anymore.”
He set the cup down. “When I arrived… the house was wrecked. She was gone. You were standing in the middle of it, covered in blood, and you didn’t even remember.”
The room tilted. My throat closed. “That’s not true.”
He stared at me — not angry, not cruel. Just heartbreakingly sad.
“I’ve been keeping you calm,” he whispered. “Every night. The tea—it suppresses what’s inside you. The part that killed her.”
The kettle whistled. The sound sliced through the silence.
“I stopped giving you the full dose,” he said. “I thought maybe you’d changed. But when I saw you watching me… I knew you were slipping again.”
He poured a second cup and slid it toward me. “Please. Drink. Before it’s too late.”
I hesitated, staring at the steam.
“What happens if I don’t?”
Daniel’s jaw tightened. “You’ll remember. And when you remember… you’ll wake it.”
Something flickered inside me then — a strange heat beneath my skin. My vision blurred.
“Daniel…” I whispered. “What did I do?”
He took a step back, eyes wide. “It’s starting.”
I felt it before I saw it — the vibration under my skin, the hum in my bones. My heartbeat thundered like a drum. The teacup shattered on the floor.
“Drink it!” he shouted.
But it was too late.
The basement lights flickered once, twice—then burst.
Darkness. A scream. His or mine, I couldn’t tell.
When I woke again, the ropes were gone. The air smelled of smoke and honey.
Daniel lay still beside the workbench. His eyes were open. His tea untouched.
And in the broken mirror across the room, something stared back at me —
something with my face.
But not my eyes.
They were hers.
Mom’s.