That night, I finally brought it up to Daniel.
"Don't you think… Luna is a little too well-liked?"
He was on the couch, thumbs flying over the controller. He didn't look up.
"Isn't that a good thing?" he said. "Makes your life easier."
I frowned."But she's still just the help."
He paused the game and turned. His eyes were calm—too calm.
"Actually, I don't like her much."
I blinked."You don't?"
"She's too quiet," he said. After a beat: "And it always feels like she's watching."
Something in my chest unclenched.
"Then when the month's up, we let her go. It was temporary anyway."
"Of course," he said, already pressing play again.
I nodded.
For the first time in weeks, I felt safe.
If even Daniel—who rarely questioned anything—felt uneasy,then I wasn't imagining things.
At least with him, she hadn't taken root.
—
The relief lasted until midnight.
After my shower, I reached for my moisturizer.
The jar settled into my palm—and felt wrong.
Lighter.
I'd opened it three days ago. Used it sparingly.
Yet half of it was gone.
I stared at it, frowning, until my eyes drifted past the sink.
There, on the other side, sat an identical jar.
Same brand.Same batch number.
Even the faint smudge on the label—mirrored.
My breath caught.
Luna appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel.
"Oh, that," she said lightly. "I saw how well it worked for you, so I bought the same one."
Her smile was open. Her voice easy.
Not because she'd bought the same product.
But because—
I was absolutely certainthis moisturizer did not have a "same one."
It was custom-formulated for my skin.Not sold in stores. Not listed anywhere.
Mixed once, for one person—me—after a private consultation.
And I had never told herwhere it came from.
I stood there, the jar still in my hand,unable to form a single question that wouldn't sound insane.
She had already turned back to the kitchen, movements silent, precise.
The relief from earlier evaporated—leaving only a thin film of cold.
—
What decided it came after two a.m.
I woke thirsty and shuffled into the hallway.
The apartment was dark.
But someone stood in the living room.
My pulse jumped.
Streetlight bled through the blinds, painting stripes across the floor.
In their glow, Luna stood motionless at the center of the room.
Her eyes were fixed on the TV console.
On the framed photo there:my parents, Daniel, me—smiling on our engagement day.
She wasn't admiring it.She wasn't reminiscing.
She was studying it.
Like a map.Like a script.
I froze in the hallway.
And in that silence, a thought cut clean through the fog of sleep:
She can't stay.
Not until the month ends.Not another night.
Just as my breath hitched, she turned.
Our eyes met.
For a heartbeat, her face changed—something flickered behind her eyes, then vanished.
"Sis?" she said, smiling instantly. "Can't sleep?"
The word landed like a stone in still water.
If I hadn't seen her a second before—if I hadn't known that look—
I might have believed it was concern.
I didn't answer.
I walked back to my room and closed the door.
In the dark, I lay staring at the ceiling.
My heart wouldn't slow.
When the month was up,she would leave.
No extensions.No exceptions.
I didn't sleep again that night.