Lyra shut her bedroom door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, letting the silence settle around her.
The pendant warmed faintly beneath her shirt, like it could feel her heartbeat.
She inhaled slowly.
The Vances were already unraveling, and she hadn't even begun.
Her gaze drifted to the room around her.
Everything looked the same as her first life—except now she saw things she had been too blind, too trusting, too desperate to notice.
A hairline crack in the dresser, sealed hastily.
The chipped lamp, shoved aside.
The empty shelf where Mira's belongings once sat.
Lyra crossed the room and pulled the dresser drawers open, one by one.
Clothes.
Old notebooks.
A few faded photos.
Nothing valuable.
Nothing of her mother.
Claudia had scrubbed Mira from this house so thoroughly that only echoes remained.
Lyra's jaw tightened.
She would undo all of it.
Her eyes drifted to the bottom drawer—the one she never touched because Claudia always told her it was broken.
Lyra crouched down.
She tugged on the handle.
It didn't budge.
Her brows knit.
She tugged harder.
Still stuck.
She stepped back, studying it more carefully. The drawer wasn't broken. Someone had wedged the track intentionally.
Claudia.
Lyra exhaled, a cold, humorless sound.
She slid her fingers beneath the gap and tested the frame. A soft vibration tingled across her skin—like something inside responded to her touch.
Her heart thumped once.
Then twice.
The pendant grew warmer.
Lyra's breath hitched.
She pressed her palm flat against the drawer.
Click.
The lock gave way.
She pulled the drawer open.
Inside, wrapped in a thin cloth, lay a small wooden box—simple, old, and unmistakably her mother's.
Lyra stared at it, breath trembling.
Her fingers brushed the lid.
Warmth spread beneath her skin—the same warmth she felt when the pendant pulsed.
A whisper of a vision brushed her mind:
Mira's hands tucking this box away.
Her soft voice saying, "For Lyra… when she's older…"
A hurried movement, fear thick in the air.
A door slamming.
Darkness swallowing everything.
Lyra's throat tightened.
She lifted the box onto her lap.
It was locked with a tiny metal clasp.
But when she touched it, the clasp loosened with a soft snap, like the box wanted to be opened by her and her alone.
Inside were:
A folded letter.
A thin journal bound in worn leather.
A photograph—Mira holding Lyra as a baby.
Mira's smile was soft, tired, full of love.
Lyra's eyes burned.
She blinked quickly.
Not now.
Not yet.
She reached for the letter first.
But as soon as her fingers brushed the paper, a distant crash echoed from downstairs.
Followed by Claudia's sharp voice.
"LYRA!"
Kira's shrill reply overlapped, carrying theatrical outrage.
"She must've taken it! I swear it was there last night!"
Lyra stilled.
Claudia's footsteps pounded up the stairs, fury building with every step.
The old Lyra would've panicked.
This Lyra didn't.
She calmly slipped the contents of the box into the corner of her closet behind a stack of blankets and pushed the drawer shut again.
Another loud slam on her door.
"LYRA! OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW!"
Lyra walked across the room with measured calm.
She opened the door.
Claudia stood there, face flushed, Kira peeking from behind her with wide, false-innocent eyes.
Claudia pointed an accusing finger.
"My necklace. The one from the top drawer. It's missing."
Lyra's expression didn't change.
"And?"
Claudia sputtered. "And? AND?! You took it!"
Lyra lifted a brow. "Why would I want your necklace?"
Kira jabbed a finger toward her. "Because you're obsessed with old things! You probably sold it!"
Lyra blinked slowly, unimpressed.
"I haven't touched anything of yours."
Claudia's eyes narrowed, searching her face, looking for fear she no longer had.
Instead, she found nothing.
Just cold calm.
Claudia's jaw clenched. "If I find out you're lying—"
Lyra stepped closer, her voice dropping.
"You'll what?"
Claudia inhaled sharply, caught off guard.
Lyra continued, quiet and steady:
"You should be more careful with your belongings, Claudia. Things get lost in this house every day."
Kira's face paled. Claudia stiffened.
Lyra stepped back and closed the door in their faces.
She leaned against it for a moment, exhaling.
The pendant hummed warmly against her skin.
And somewhere inside the little wooden box hidden in her closet, her mother's journal seemed to pulse faintly—like something inside it was waiting to be read.
Tomorrow.
Not today.
Lyra pushed off the door and sat on her bed.
One step at a time.
She would uncover everything they tried to bury.
She would reclaim everything they stole.
And she would make every single one of them regret ever touching her mother's life.