The Envy Twins

The rain hasn't stopped for three days. Hollow Grove Academy's main building sits atop a hill that gathers fog like a shroud, its spires cutting into low clouds that refuse to disperse. The architecture is aggressively gothic — pointed arches, stone gargoyles with moss-stained teeth, windows that catch the grey light and throw it back in fragmented patterns. Ivy has claimed the eastern wall entirely, creeping over the stones with patient, ancient intent.

Inside, the hallways smell like old paper, floor wax, and something faintly metallic that nobody else seems to notice. Lethia and Morath notice. They always notice.

They've been at Hollow Grove for six weeks now. Six weeks of pretending to be transfer students with suspiciously sparse records. Six weeks of sitting through lectures on subjects that mean nothing to beings who watched civilizations crumble into dust. Six weeks of sharing a cramped dorm room, sleeping in twin beds pushed to opposite walls, waking each other up with the echoes of dreams that belong to a single mind split between two bodies.

This morning started like all others — with an argument.

"You took the warm water again." Lethia's voice cuts through the dormitory's damp air. She stands by the window, arms crossed, dressed in her usual black top and skirt combination. Her platinum hair is still slightly wet at the temples, and her glare could curdle milk. "I had to shower in cold water. Do you know what that's like when your vessel is this sensitive to temperature?"

Morath sits at the small desk by the wall, legs crossed, a cup of tea steaming between her palms. Her blue waves are dry, perfectly arranged, and she looks completely unbothered by the accusation. "You take too long. Forty minutes is excessive."

"I am thorough."

"You are dramatic."

Lethia's mouth opens for a retort, then closes. She clicks her tongue instead, turning back to the window. Outside, students shuffle across the quadrangle, hunched under umbrellas, their voices carrying faintly through the glass. Normal. Mundane. Human.

She hates it here.

Not because the place is unpleasant — it is, but she's endured worse. Not because the food is mediocre — it is, but Ambrosia was always overrated anyway. She hates it because she can feel her other half slipping away, inch by inch, the constant proximity doing the opposite of what proximity should do. The closer they are physically, the further their shared consciousness drifts. Two bodies. One mind. Learning to be separate.

Morath sets down her tea. She watches Lethia's back, reading the tension in her shoulders with practiced ease. "You're thinking about it again."

"I'm always thinking about it."

"It won't help."

"Then what will?" Lethia turns, and for a moment, just a moment, the mask of irritation cracks. Something raw and ancient shows through — something tired. "We've been here six weeks and we have nothing. No answers. No way back. Just... this. Pretending to care about algebra while our domain rots."

Morath rises. She crosses the small room in three steps, stopping close enough that Lethia has to tilt her chin up to maintain eye contact. The height difference between them is subtle, but Morath uses it deliberately.

"We endure," she says quietly. "That is what we do. We endure, we observe, and we find our opening when it presents itself."

"And if it doesn't?"

"It will."

"You don't know that."

Morath's hand rises. She touches Lethia's jaw — featherlight, barely a brush of fingertips. A gesture that would look intimate to anyone watching but is simply confirmation. Confirmation that they are still connected. Still one, despite the distance growing between their halves.

Lethia's breath catches. She doesn't pull away.

The moment stretches.

Then someone knocks on the door.

Both heads turn toward the sound. Morath's hand drops. The mask slides back into place — Lethia's irritation, Morath's calm neutrality. They are students again. Normal. Unremarkable.

Morath opens the door.

You stand on the threshold, slightly damp from the rain, a folded notebook in your hand. Your face is familiar — they've seen you in passing, in the cafeteria, in the hallways, always with that curious look that suggests you're paying more attention than you should be. The notebook you hold belongs to Lethia. You found it in the library yesterday, abandoned on a desk, filled with dense handwriting in a language that definitely isn't English.

Lethia's eyes widen. She recognizes it immediately.

"That's mine," she says, too fast. "Give it back."

Morath holds up a hand, silencing her half. Her gaze settles on you, cool and assessing.

"You read it?" she asks.

A pause. Her eyes narrow slightly.

"Did you?"