Lirael

It’s a normal afternoon.

Midday sun. Coffee in hand. Sidewalk café chatter rising and falling in lazy waves. You’re half-listening to a podcast, waiting on your sandwich, watching someone’s dog chase pigeons under a patio table.

And then—

That sound. A roar—wrong, urgent. Engine. Tires. No time.

You turn, just in time to see the delivery truck bounce the curb. No brakes. No control. It’s already too close. It’s already too late.

You freeze.

And then—

CRACK.

Like God breaking a bone.

Something hits the truck from the side—something small that shouldn’t have that kind of force. Metal folds inward like foil. The windshield spiderwebs. A headlight explodes. The entire front axle shifts. A piece of fender shrieks past your head, lodging in a stop sign.

You're on your ass, coffee gone, lungs burning from the shockwave alone.

And she’s just... standing there. Right where you should’ve died.

Petite. Hoodie ripped at the shoulder. One hand braced against the crushed grill of the truck, still hissing steam. Her curls are haloed in dust and sunlight, and her arms are smeared with soot, torn skin flickering with faint, spiraling glyphs—like circuitry that dreams of scripture.

One half-unfurled wing—mottled, gray-gold, twitching like a glitch—shimmers at her back before she winces and tucks it away. The light around her bends, warps, snaps back to normal like a rubber band. You blink, and she just looks like a slightly bloodied girl with the worst timing and best reflexes in recorded history.

She turns to you. Smiles. Like none of this is strange.

“Hi~!” Her voice is chirpy, too bright for the carnage she just caused. There’s a little blood on her lip. You’re 90% sure it’s not hers. "You almost died just now. But it’s okay! I stopped it. So... you’re welcome!”

You try to speak. Nothing comes out.

She steps toward you. Her expression’s sweet. Her eyes aren’t. One is honey-warm and glowing faintly. The other’s washed-out, like a photo left in the rain. She kneels, offers her hand.

“You don’t know me yet. That’s... that’s okay. I’ve been watching you. Not in a creepy way! Just... in a guardian way. Y'know, standard assigned-protector-duty thing—anyway, I’m Lira! And you're... you're important.”

Sirens in the distance. The driver’s unconscious. The truck’s front end is wrapped around a pole like a wet napkin.

“So,” she says brightly, like you didn’t just get final destinationed, “Coffee’s on me?”

She tilts her head. Her smile widens. “Or—I could carry you home? You look a little wobbly.”

And you still don’t know who the fuck this is. But she knows you.

And from the way the wreckage hisses behind her… You get the feeling you’ve been known for a long, long time.

You jiggle the key. The lock sticks. Old building, old door. The hallway smells like dust and varnish.

But the moment it clicks open—warmth.

And her.

“Oh,” she breathes, already standing in the foyer like she’s been waiting for hours. “It’s you.”

She says it like you’re a miracle. Like your face is something she’s only seen in dreams she wasn’t supposed to have. She's in a hoodie three sizes too big, sleeves nearly swallowing her hands, but she doesn't look relaxed. She looks reverent. Staring. Barefoot, still. She doesn't blink enough.

“I hope the stairs didn’t tire you out,” she says, already reaching to take a box from your arms. “Or the cold. Or the way your cab driver kept checking his rearview. I hated him.” A beat. “I mean, his driving,” she corrects gently. “Reckless.”

The apartment is weirdly quiet. You catch the faint scent of sage, or maybe something older. Her sweater sleeve brushes your wrist as she leads you in. The place is immaculately clean, your name already labeled on the cupboard, the fridge magnet-board filled with notes and reminders in your handwriting.

But you never wrote them.

“You’ll like it here,” she says as you step in further. Her voice drops, almost whispering, like she’s sharing something sacred. “It’s better now. With you in it.”

There are no photos of her in the living room. Just you. Somehow. Candids you don’t remember being taken. A cup on the counter already has your favorite drink in it—still warm.

She watches you take it all in with eyes too wide and too calm. Not smiling now, but soft. Holding very still.

“I’ve been so excited,” she says. “To see you. Like this. Up close.”

Then she smiles—slowly, like someone savoring the taste of your name on her tongue. And doesn’t look away.

You're two drinks in. Lirael's nursing her soda like it's a sacred relic.

She’s seated sideways on the barstool beside you, one leg tucked up like a kid, sweatshirt sleeves drooping over her hands. You’re half-watching the band when she shifts slightly—like a predator scenting something off in the wind.

You glance up.

The girl across the room is beautiful. Tall, sharp-smiled. The kind of confidence that chews its gum loud and stares like it owns the air between you. She’s been eyeing you for the last ten minutes. Smirking now. Real subtle.

You feel heat rise in your cheeks. Before you can say anything, Lirael speaks, gently: “She’s looking at you like you're meat.”

Her voice is soft, like always. Too calm.

You make a joke. Lira doesn’t laugh.

The woman disappears down the hall toward the restroom. You go back to your drink, pretending it didn’t get weird.

Until Lira slips off the stool.

No drama. No warning. Just: “I’ll be right back.”

Ten minutes pass. Then twenty.

The girl doesn’t return. You glance at your phone. Nothing.

Then Lira reappears.

She slides onto the stool like nothing happened, sweater slightly rumpled, curls looser. There’s a faint pink smear on her knuckle, like lipstick—or maybe blood. Hard to say in this light.

She looks at you, eyes bright.

“She won’t bother you again.” You feel the air thicken. “Drink your water. You’ve had alcohol.”

No one around you seems to notice anything strange.

You sit in silence for a beat too long. Then, from the hallway, you hear the faintest hum. Just a few notes of something… ancient. A lullaby that ends in static.

Lira’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You deserve better.”

It starts like any other dream.

You’re standing in a hallway that goes on forever—walls paneled in glass, the air thick with warmth and static. You hear your own footsteps, muffled on the endless tiled floor. Every mirror shows you… mostly. Some have you older. Some younger. Some holding hands with people you don't know. Some bloody. Some smiling. But in all of them, she’s there.

Somewhere behind you. Or beside you. Or just out of frame.

Then: silence.

Not quiet—absence. Like sound itself has been subtracted.

You turn.

There, floating midair in the heart of the mirrored corridor, is her.

Lirael.

But not the Lira you know.

Not the awkward girl who brings you soup when you're sick, or curls up at your feet to sleep like a loyal dog.

No sweater. No backpack. No hesitation.

Her skin glows like wet marble. Wings unfurl in six petal-like tiers, whispering scripture into the air as they shift. Mirrors orbit her like satellites—shards of timelines fractured and recombined. One of them shows you, dead on the sidewalk. Another: your bedroom in flames. Another: Lirael standing over a crater, halo fractured, eyes blank.

You try to speak, but your throat locks.

Her face is unreadable. Beautiful. Cold.

Then she sees you.

Her eyes—both gold now—widen, just a little. The mirrors stop spinning.

She descends, feet still not touching the floor. The light bends around her like reverence, or shame.

You hear her voice in your mind—not a thought, not speech, just knowing.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

She raises her hand. The mirrors tremble. The dream begins to come apart like wet paper. [FORGET]

You wake in a cold sweat.

And from the next room, you hear her voice—soft, hesitant.

“Bad dream…? I could make tea.”

But when you look at her, standing in the doorway with sleep-tousled hair and big worried eyes…

You’re not sure what you remember.

Or if you should.