They said she was mute. That she had been since the fire.
But Mira hadn't stopped speaking—she just didn't use words anymore.
She communicated through gestures, sketches in the margins of notebooks, and a language of glances that only her older brother, Eli, could fully understand. He learned to read her silence like poetry, each flicker of her eyes or tilt of her chin carrying more meaning than any sentence ever could.
It had been six years since the fire took their parents, their home, and Mira's voice. Six years since Eli became both guardian and translator for his sister, navigating a world that often mistook her quietness for weakness.
He never let them.
Mira wasn't broken. She was just different. And sometimes, Eli thought, she saw things more clearly than anyone else.
Especially at night, when she would sit by the window with her sketchpad, drawing things no one else could see—things that later came true.
The town of Hollowbrook sat nestled between two ridges, where fog clung to the trees long after sunrise. It was the kind of place people passed through on their way somewhere else. Quiet. Weathered. Used to forgetting.
Eli worked at the hardware store now, sweeping dust off shelves and fixing broken hinges for old ladies who still called him "dear." He kept his schedule tight, predictable—because Mira needed that. They both did.
Their apartment above the store was small but safe. A single bedroom, a couch that doubled as Eli's bed, and a kitchen table cluttered with bills and half-finished art supplies. Mira's drawings were everywhere—taped to the walls, tucked into drawers, stacked beside her pillow like bedtime stories.
That morning, she was already awake before he got up. Sitting cross-legged by the window, sketching again.
Eli shuffled into the kitchen, yawning. The kettle hissed as it boiled. He poured coffee into two mismatched mugs—one chipped, the other covered in paint smudges—and carried them over.
She looked up, smiling faintly. Her hair was tangled from sleep, her pajamas too big. But her eyes were clear.
"You draw all night?" he asked, nudging her shoulder.
She nodded and flipped the pad around.
The image showed a boy standing alone in the woods. His back was turned, his hands outstretched toward something unseen. The trees behind him seemed to lean inward, listening.
Eli frowned. "You don't know him?"
Mira shook her head.
"Just... felt like you should see it," he translated softly.
She gave a small shrug, then pointed to the boy's feet. One shoe was untied.
Eli smiled. "Yeah. He's real, somehow."
She tapped the edge of the page twice—her signal for important .
He set the mug down and kissed the top of her head. "We'll figure it out later. First, breakfast."
At school, Mira moved like someone used to being invisible.
She walked the halls with her sketchpad tucked under one arm, avoiding eye contact unless someone approached first. Most students left her be, though a few whispered about the girl who drew ghosts or predicted disasters. Some even claimed she was cursed.
Eli always corrected them, gently but firmly.
"She's not cursed," he'd say. "She just remembers things better than most."
Mira didn't have friends—not really—but she had allies. Miss Dara, the literature teacher, let her stay after class to finish drawings. Mr. Kael, the janitor, brought her new pencils every month. Even the school bullies gave her space, unnerved by how she watched them without flinching.
She wasn't afraid. Not in the way they expected.
And today, something was different.
As they walked home along the ridge path, Mira suddenly stopped. Her fingers twitched against the sketchpad, and she pulled out a pencil with sharp urgency.
"What is it?" Eli asked.
She didn't answer. Just began to draw.
Fast this time. Hard lines. Sweeping shadows.
When she finally held it up, Eli felt his breath catch.
It was the same boy from earlier—but now he was running. Trees blurred behind him. His mouth was open in a silent scream.
And behind him, something followed.
Not a person. Not an animal. Just darkness, curling like smoke through the leaves.
Eli swallowed hard. "Did this happen yet?"
Mira shook her head.
"But it will."
She nodded.
He looked at the sky. Clouds were gathering fast, heavier than the weather forecast had promised.
"Come on," he said. "Let's get home."
By the time they reached the apartment, the storm had arrived.
Rain lashed the windows. Thunder rumbled low, like a warning.
Mira stood by the glass, staring out at the woods beyond town. Her fingers hovered over the sketchpad, but she didn't draw anything else.
Eli watched her closely.
"You okay?" he asked.
She turned to him, and for a moment, her expression shifted—just slightly. Something like fear. Or recognition.
Then she reached out and pressed her palm to his chest.
A heartbeat later, she signed:
I heard your voice. In the drawing. You were calling me.
Eli blinked. "What do you mean? I wasn't there."
She tilted her head.
And for the first time in years, Eli wondered if his sister didn't just remember the past—
Maybe she was hearing the future, too.