Even the dead can envy what still breathes.
Eli woke to silence. No wind. No rain. No sound but the soft crackle of the dying fire.
For a moment, he thought it had all been a dream the birth, the whisper, the candle going out. His hands were empty now, his arms cold. The bed beside him was still warm, but Casey was gone. The sheets carried her scent: pine smoke, milk, and fading life.
He sat up slowly, dizzy from the weight of sleep. His body ached, his mind fogged. The baby, where was the baby?
He turned toward the crib by the window.
Empty.
The blanket inside was folded perfectly, untouched. The mobile above it still swayed, though the air in the room was dead still.
He stood, legs trembling. "Casey?" His voice cracked the quiet. "Casey, please… if you're here"
A laugh cut through the dawn. Soft. Gurgling. Childlike. It came from the hallway.
Eli froze. The sound came again closer. Something small crawled across the wooden floor, dragging its fingers through the dust. Tap. Tap. Tap.
His breath hitched. "No…"
He turned toward the door. "Who's there?"
A whisper brushed his ear cold, wet, familiar.
"You promised to raise me right."
He spun. Nothing there.
The crib creaked. When he looked back, the baby was inside it again wrapped in the same blanket, eyes wide open, staring.
The faint morning light brushed across its face, revealing something new.
A thin red spiral etched beneath its eye.
Eli's pulse thundered. "No… no, you're not real."
But the baby only smiled.
Outside, the wind rose suddenly, screaming through the cracks. The mist pressed against the windows like a living thing. And somewhere beyond it, something called his name softly, patiently.
"Eli…"
The voice was older now. Familiar.
And as he turned to the window, the reflection staring back wasn't his own.
Eli stumbled back, chest heaving. The baby's cry deepened it was older, layered with something ancient. Each wail bent the air, drawing the walls inward.
Then, the candle flickered back to life. A figure stepped out of the wall.
It was Eli.
Or something wearing his face.
Pale, bruised, drenched in mud. His eyes hollow yet burning. His arms cradled another child alive, fragile, trembling.
Eli gasped, his hand pressing to his chest. "No… that's not possible."
The copy lifted his gaze haunted, exhausted, streaked with blood. His lips trembled as though whispering a name he could no longer say. He looked at Eli with sorrow so deep it was almost tender.
Outside, the wind howled. The walls moaned.
The baby in the crib twitched, veins blackening beneath its skin. Its cry turned monstrous, the sound of something ancient tearing through flesh. Blood began to pour from its mouth, soaking the sheets.
Eli screamed. He tried to move but his body locked.
The other Eli moved instead.
He crossed the room like a fading shadow, his torn coat sweeping the floor. He knelt by the crib and covered the bleeding infant, voice breaking.
"Not this one. Not again."
His hand trembled as he lifted both children the dying imitation and the living child and whispered words that cracked the walls.
Then the light shattered. The air folded inward.
Eli's body convulsed as the world bent. His limbs went heavy. The floor melted into darkness. The last thing he saw was his copy's face torn, weary, yet calm as he mouthed a single word:
"Sleep."
Eli fell, the world drowning in red.
When his eyes opened again, the fire was gone.
The dawn had turned to ash.
The air smelled of iron and sorrow.
The crib had been dragged across the room its legs carving deep grooves through the blood-stained wood. The lullaby was gone, replaced by whispers that shifted like wind through bones.
All warmth ends where memory begins.
He stumbled outside, bare feet sinking into damp soil. The forest loomed darker than before, the branches bowing as if grieving.
"The forest remembers every child taken," he muttered hoarsely.
"You!" he shouted, voice cracking. "Bring them back!"
The echo that returned wasn't his own.
Some echoes aren't meant to return.
Through the mist, he saw it a shadow moving.
A man. No… a shape. His shape. His copy, walking toward the forest, carrying both infants. One still. One breathing.
Every savior must carry the weight of another's sin.
Eli's knees hit the dirt. He reached out, choking on grief. "Please! Don't take them!"
The copy turned once. Half his face was lost to the light, but in that fractured smile, there was peace and unbearable sadness. His eyes glistened, shimmering with something like goodbye.
Even reflection can mourn the man it mimics.
He spoke softly, barely audible through the wind.
"I promised Elias I'd save you. One life for another… He made me choose."
The name struck like lightning. "Elias?" Eli rasped.
The copy nodded faintly, tears streaking his dirt-stained face. "He fought the shadow so you wouldn't have to. He said you'd never stop fighting unless someone took your place."
Then, as the forest wind rose, he stepped backward into the trees, clutching the infants close.
"Brother," Eli whispered, voice breaking. "Please… stay."
The copy smiled weakly. "Even love must choose what to bury."
And then he vanished.
Eli collapsed, fingers digging into the soil. His tears mixed with the earth where Elias once bled. The red threads beneath his skin stirred again, pulsing slow, patient, alive.
Curses do not die. They wait.
From the treeline, something stirred something older, watching.
History doesn't repeat. It collects.
Eli rose slowly, eyes burning, the forest's breath against his skin. He looked toward the dark horizon, his body shaking yet unyielding.
"I'll bring them back," he whispered. "I don't care what it costs."
His vow burned through the night like a curse reborn. The soil beneath his feet shivered, warm and breathing, answering in silence.
And as he stepped into the forest, the wind whispered his name one last time
like a prayer,
or a warning.
And so, the story began again.