Prolegue
The library was silent, but the silence wasn’t empty—it was packed full of the smell of warm blood and spilled port wine. It was the only sound a five-year-old girl could hear.
Olivia Smith knelt on the heavy, dark green carpet. Her parents, Eleanor and Alistair Smith, were still among the broken shelves and toppled books. She knew they were gone, not because of the quiet, but because the cold, heavy weight of their absence had already replaced the warmth of the room.
A voice, sharp and dry, like old parchment tearing, spoke right next to her ear. It wasn’t the sound of her breath, but it was close enough to be her own thought.
“They deserved it,” the voice whispered. “They chose wrong. Now, we are free.”
That was Isla. Isla was the loud, messy twin. The one who hated wearing dresses and always looked at the world with a challenging glare. But when the police arrived and the flashes of light filled the room, the men in uniform saw only one surviving child: the quiet, tear-stained girl named Olivia.
Her Uncle George Davies, his face drawn and white, knelt beside her and pulled her into a tight embrace. “You are safe, Olivia,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “Your name is Olivia. There was no sister. It was only ever you.”
Aunt Clara rushed forward, holding a worn blanket like a shield. “Isla,” she said with a harsh finality, “She never existed. She was an imaginary friend. You promise us, darling. You forget her.”
Olivia nodded, but as she watched the shadows dance in the corners of the room, she felt the whisper, the cold certainty of Isla’s existence, slide deeper into her own soul. The kind-hearted child was gone, replaced by a vessel holding a terrible, forgotten truth. And the twin who never existed was just waiting for her chance to emerge.
