There is no name for me. There never was.
Before the fire. Before the boy. Before the house bled memories and mirrors wept reflections that didn't belong—I watched.
I always watched.
In the space between sleep and scream, I dwell.
Not born. Not summoned. Simply present.
Time coils around me like a serpent chewing its own spine. I do not move forward. I do not age. I wait. For patterns. For cycles. For loops.
For him.
He is not ready yet. The boy. The cursed one. Zero.
But I feel the shift. The trembling beneath the veil. The house at Hollowpine Road stirs again—its windows breathing, its walls remembering.
The mirror inside whispers his name before he even knows it.
Luca.
The story will begin, as it always does. And he will think it's his first time.
He will dream of me soon.
He always does.
