A chill, damp and clinging, seeped from the floorboards beneath Elara’s bare feet. Silas’s words echoed, a frantic counterpoint to the silence of the old house. Not a ghost, he’d said. Something living. Something that fed. Sounds twisted themselves into unfamiliar shapes in the dim quiet of her study. Wood groaning. Wind sighing. Each whisper of the house seemed to carry a phantom edge, a nascent melody just beyond her grasp. Alone, she gripped the mug of forgotten tea, its warmth long since vanished. Her mind replayed Silas’s warning: the entity *already latched*. It knew their grief. It would follow. Then, a softness brushed against her ear, distinct from the wind. A breath. *Mama?* Her breath caught, a shard of ice in her throat. Impossible. Her son, Leo. Gone. Shaking, she squeezed her eyes shut. Hallucinations. Sleep deprivation. Grief, a venomous current, pooling deep inside her. Opened her eyes to the same empty room. Yet a warmth, phantom-like, bloomed in the space where a small hand might have rested in hers. *Don’t you miss me, Mama?* Voice so clear. The slight lilt on the last syllable. Leo’s voice. His particular cadence when he was being sweet, just before asking for a cookie. Her chest tightened, a crushing weight. Her boy. How could she hear him? Why now? *It’s quiet here, Mama. So quiet.* Felt a tremor run through the air itself, not a draft, but a vibration. The house was listening. The parasite was listening. It remembered. She pushed back from the desk, chair scraping loudly. The sound seemed to scatter the delicate thread of the voice. Silence returned, heavy and mocking. Stood. Walked to the window, gazing out at the skeletal trees. Night pressed in, a black cloth over the world. *He’s waiting for you.* Voice not in her ear this time. More like a thought, perfectly formed, blooming directly in her mind. But it wasn’t *her* thought. Turned, sharply. Nothing. Just the shadows stretching long, dancing to an unseen rhythm. *You could be with him. Always.* A wave of profound longing washed over her, an ache so deep it was physical. Every fibre of her being screamed for release from this relentless pain. The promise in that whispered thought was a balm, cool and deadly. Her feet moved, unbidden, towards the hallway. Up the stairs. Each step a whisper of its own, a creak of ancient wood. The house knew the path. It was guiding her. *He misses your lullabies, Mama.* She ascended the attic stairs, the air growing colder, heavier. Dust motes danced in the sliver of moonlight filtering through a grimy pane. Fingers brushed against the rough plaster of the attic wall. Cold, damp. A familiar sensation, like holding a small, cold hand. *He’s so lonely up here.* Loneliness. Her own vast, echoing loneliness met the phantom plea. What greater suffering could there be than the gaping void left by a child? Moved past stacks of forgotten furniture, shrouded in white sheets like ghosts of domesticity. Past the broken rocking horse, its painted eye staring into nothing. *Come closer. Just a little closer.* Voice now a chorus, a multitude of small, light tones. All Leo’s voice. Layered, overlapping, a symphony of innocent yearning. It was unbearable. She reached the attic window, its glass opaque with grime and time. Placed a hand on the sill, cold stone against her palm. A faint outline of the world outside, blurred and indistinct. *Jump, Mama.* No. Not jump. The word was wrong. Too harsh. This thing, this parasite, it understood her grief, but not her love. *Come home, Mama. Come home to me.* That was it. That was his voice, his pure, innocent desire. The words resonated, shaking her to her core. He wanted her. He was here. He was waiting. Leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the cold pane. The world outside beckoned, a soft, dark promise. A single, distinct tear traced a path down her cheek, mirroring the faint outline of a child's handprint on the dusty glass. *It’s time, Mama. Time to sleep.* Her fingers gripped the frame, her gaze drawn to the dizzying drop below. The whispers swirled, a comforting blanket of sound. They promised peace. They promised reunion. Her son was just beyond the glass, waiting for her to step through the veil, to finally come home. A quiet hum filled the space, vibrating from the very bones of the house, a lullaby without melody, a soft, insistent coaxing. She found herself smiling, a slow, gentle curve of her lips that felt terribly, terribly wrong.

Chapter 17: The Mimicry