Kirian lifted Polina into his arms, alarmed by how light she felt. The overturned chair scraped across the linoleum, a harsh sound swallowed by the quiet dread that filled the apartment. He carried her to her bedroom, the small space filled with scattered art supplies and half-finished canvases. Her skin felt cool against his cheek as he laid her on the rumpled bed, pulling a thin blanket over her. The hum in his head, the presence of the ghost he knew as Nadya, sharpened into an almost physical pressure, not hostile now, but laced with a new kind of terror. It was a cold dread that mirrored his own. He knelt beside her, checking her pulse, which fluttered weakly beneath his fingers. Her breathing was shallow, barely disturbing the blanket. The chaotic scribble she’d made, the tangled lines and shadowy forms, flashed in his mind. He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead. His voice was a raw whisper, meant for the air, for himself, for the silent observer he knew was there. “What was it, Polina? What did you see?” A sharp, silent cry echoed in his mind, Zorya’s distress. It wasn’t directed at him, but *for* Polina, a raw surge of fear that pierced the usual veil of her fury. It felt like a shared wound, a sudden, unexpected alignment of purpose. “She’s so pale,” he thought, the words not truly his own but a projection into the space between them. “She’s never been like this.” He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the cool cotton of the duvet. “What happened?” The hum in his head intensified, a frantic fluttering. *That… thing. It touched her.* The thought was fragmented, raw, like a panicked gasp. *It reached for her mind. It wants… it wants her light.* The words were less accusatory, more desperate. The ghost wasn't just observing; she was afraid, and for the first time, not *of* him. He looked at Polina’s peaceful, too-still face. His sister, his responsibility. A knot tightened in his chest. He had to understand. He had to protect her. A strange impulse took hold. He needed to show Zorya. He needed her to see Polina, not just as a name that triggered terror, but as a person, as *his* person. He closed his eyes again, concentrating, not on words, but on images. He thought of Polina as a little girl, all scraped knees and bright smiles, chasing pigeons in the park, her laughter like wind chimes. He projected the memory of teaching her to ride her first bicycle, his hands steadying the seat, her delighted shriek when she finally pedaled away on her own. He showed the spirit their quiet evenings, Polina curled up with a sketchbook, him reading a case file, the quiet ease between them. He showed the fierce protectiveness he felt, the burning need to keep her safe, to give her the life he'd never had. The mental space between them shifted. The hum softened, became less a barrier and more a conduit. He felt a profound sense of *witnessing* from her, not just observation, but a deep, sorrowful recognition. He felt her grief, sharp and sudden, at the sight of a sibling's bond, a closeness she'd lost. Then, a new image bloomed in his mind, unbidden by him, yet distinctly hers. A flash of sunlight filtered through tall, arched windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. A younger girl, identical to the image he’d seen in the locket, was crouched behind a heavy velvet curtain, her expression bright with mischievous glee. She held a single, wilting lily in her hand. A whisper, high and sweet, carried on an imaginary breeze: *“Nadya, where are you?”* He saw the twin, the one who was the ghost, hold her breath, a smile trembling on her lips. She pressed herself tighter against the wall, the cool plaster a comfort. Then, another girl, *Nadya*, stepped into view, her braid slightly askew, her brow furrowed in playful frustration. She peeked around a towering bookshelf, its shelves laden with leather-bound volumes, then into an empty armchair. The first girl, Zorya, giggled, a tiny puff of air, and then burst from behind the curtain, shouting, “Found you!” The recollection felt vivid, filled with the scent of old paper and blooming lilies, the echo of happy laughter. It was innocent, bittersweet, and utterly real. The raw intimacy of the shared mental space struck him with physical force, like cold water breaking over stone. For a moment, the distance between them, the impossible chasm of life and death, simply dissolved. They were two minds bound by shared vulnerability, by a common past, by a feeling that transcended the physical. It was a closeness that made his chest ache, a longing for something tangible he knew he could never have. He let the feeling wash over him, a strange, beautiful ache. He focused on the details she showed him: the heavy bookshelves, the specific scent of the lilies, the way the light fell. He tried to place it within the Sobol Estate he’d explored. “That was… the library?” he projected, the question gentle. A pause. A flicker of confusion from her. *Yes. We always played there. Nadya loved to hide among the books. She was so good at it. Father would read to us by the tall window, near the globe.* Another pang, sharper and colder, cut through the warmth. The detail of the globe. The specific placement of the window. He remembered the official police report. He’d read it multiple times, every detail etched into his mind. *Murder weapon, blunt force trauma. Scene of death: the grand ballroom, near the broken music box.* His mind reeled. He’d walked through the ballroom. He’d seen the shattered music box display. He’d even found fragments of bone beneath the floorboards, matching the original forensic reports. It was all there. Concrete. Undeniable. *The police report said you died in the ballroom,* Kirian thought, a sudden, dawning horror solidifying in his gut. *I know,* she replied, her voice in his mind tinged with a faint, unsettling echo. *But my clearest memories are of the library.*

A Fragile Truce