You are finally free.
The janitor pointed. Through the window, the fog had lifted, revealing a church. Its steeple was a twisted spire of black iron, and its doors were open, revealing a fire that burned without warmth.
A child’s laughter answered. High and thin, like a music box winding down.
But she didn’t wake. Instead, the walls began to bleed. Not blood—something darker. Ink. It poured from the seams, pooling at her feet, and in its reflection she saw not her own face, but another’s. A little girl with dirty pigtails and hollow eyes. A girl who was her and wasn’t her.