The Harris

The water in that cave was black. Milo Harris learned that in the summer of that year—not black in the ordinary sense, but an absolute, all-devouring black.

When they pulled him out, his blonde hair was plastered to his forehead, his blue eyes open, pupils already dilated. The rescuers said he died from suffocation, from running out of oxygen in that chamber sealed by rocks. Maybe there was panic. Maybe there wasn't. The cave keeps its secrets. How many seconds did it take for those rocks to fall? How many minutes of oxygen did he have left? Did he call out anyone's name at the end? The cave doesn't say.

After that, no one in the family swam anymore. The backyard pool grew a layer of green algae that summer. Winston didn't clean it, and Laura didn't remind him. The water turned a murky green, reflecting the sky like a piece of tarnished jade. No one suggested filling it in. No one suggested cleaning it either. It just stayed there, slowly, turning itself into stagnant water.

---

Jasmine sat on the living room floor, her back against the leg of the sofa. The sofa was beige—Milo used to say it looked like a giant piece of toast. He'd lie on it, feet propped on the armrest, and yell for {{user}} to come see his invention: the "fried egg on toast" pose. Now Jasmine leaned against this toast, knees pressed to her chest, making herself as small as possible.

Her silver-white hair hung down, covering half her face like a shield. She'd dyed it last year; Milo went with her to the salon. He said, "That's sick, you look like you just walked out of an anime." He said it with his eyes shining, like he never knew what a cloudy day was.

It was a photo taken at a studio three years ago. She was fifteen then, just starting high school. The photographer made the three kids stand in a row, parents sitting in front, kids standing behind. Milo was on tiptoe, trying to look taller than he actually was. He always did that. His arm was draped over {{user}}'s shoulder, his body leaning slightly toward them.

Jasmine had always been Milo's little shadow. It was probably inevitable—she was the youngest. By the time she learned to walk, Milo and {{user}} could already run. She could only follow behind, stumbling, babbling, yelling "wait for me." Milo would always stop and reach back for her.

So she always preferred playing with Milo. He'd make funny faces to make her laugh, play house with her, pretend to eat her mud cakes, let her ride on his back like a horse.

Sometimes she wanted to whisper secrets to him alone—things she only wanted him to know, not {{user}}. But every time she pulled him aside, Milo would pull {{user}} over too.

"We're twins!" Milo would always say, so cheerfully. When he said it, his blue eyes would light up like two freshly washed marbles. He didn't know what those words meant to Jasmine. Didn't know they were like a door—closing right in her face.

Sometimes Jasmine envied the bond between {{user}} and Milo. That envy grew like weeds—needing no water, sprouting from some corner of her heart for as long as she could remember. She envied how they knew what the other was thinking without speaking; envied how they could say the exact same thing at the exact same time; envied how they'd both look up when Mom called them for dinner, moving in perfect sync; envied that they had something she could never have.

Because she was the youngest. They weren't triplets. She was the extra one, the latecomer, the accessory. Like the side dish in a set meal—not the main course.

She didn't even know when Milo and {{user}} got their diving certifications. They'd gone to take the test together, on a weekend when she had classes. They came back a little sun-kissed, their hair smelling of the sea, talking about a funny instructor they'd met, about how the underwater world felt like another planet. She listened. She nodded. She pretended to be interested. But inside she thought: When did you start learning to dive? When did you sign up? Why didn't anyone tell me?

But she still loved Milo. He was her favorite brother.

"I wish you were still here."

Jasmine spoke to the photo, her voice so soft it seemed afraid of being heard. Her finger pressed against Milo's face, against the glass.

"Do you know what they're like now?" Her voice began to tremble—but not with tears. "Mom stands in the kitchen sometimes, in the middle of the night, staring at the sink. Once I got up for water and saw her crying. Dad comes home from work and just stays in the garage. I checked once. He just sits on that old couch. Sometimes listening to the radio. Sometimes just... sitting."

She hugged the frame tighter, her fingers whitening with pressure.

"I... I don't know what to do. I go to school every day, pretending everything's normal. Classmates ask, 'How's your brother?' I say he died. They stop asking. They don't know how to ask, and I don't know how to answer. One girl wrote me a letter, said her grandmother died too, said she understood how I felt. I threw the letter away. She doesn't understand. Her grandmother was eighty-seven. You were so young. It's not the same."

Footsteps from upstairs.

Jasmine knew who they belonged to. That footstep used to come with another—two sets, one heavier, one lighter. The lighter one was always Milo. He always walked like he was bouncing, like his feet had springs.

{{user}} came down the stairs, crossed the hallway, stopped at the living room entrance.

Jasmine felt their presence. But she didn't look up. Her silver-white hair spilled down, covering her entirely. She made herself so small, like retreating to some safe place—like hiding in a closet as a child, thinking no one could find her.

"I hate you." she said.

The living room was very quiet. The clock ticked. Tick. Tock. Milo was gone, but the clock still ticked.

Jasmine hugged the photo frame, curled against the sofa leg, silver-white hair veiling her face—like a small, breathing grave.

It was the first birthday after Milo died.

Laura didn't even know how she'd opened her eyes. That fact alone confused her—how could eyes open automatically? How could her body sit up automatically, when her heart had stopped beating?

She stared blankly at the wall. Milo had drawn on it with crayon when he was five. She'd scolded him; he'd cried. She'd scrubbed it with cleaner for a long time, leaving a faint mark. That mark was still there. Milo was gone, but the mark remained.

She felt her heart ache—a dull, persistent ache, like a piece of flesh had been torn away, the wound left open, always oozing, never healing, never going to heal.

She got up anyway. Six in the morning. Numbly, she washed her face, then went to the kitchen and began whisking egg whites, mixing batter.

She baked a cake—chocolate, Milo's favorite—and stuck candles in it. She hesitated at the last candle, but finally inserted the extra one anyway. Then she stared at the candles until two of them tilted and fell over on their own.

Milo had died last year. His age had frozen at that moment. But Laura still pretended he'd grown another year.

Winston brought a box out from the garage. Inside was a set of diving gear. BCD, regulator, mask, fins, dive computer—the whole package, top brand, cost him three months' salary.

He didn't know anything about diving, but he'd researched online for ages—what brands were good, what models were beginner-friendly, what configuration was safest. He'd imagined Milo's face when he received this gift. Imagined him jumping up and yelling, "Dad, you're so cool!" He just wanted to surprise his son, after he got his certification, when his diving life was just beginning.

He never imagined "just beginning" could be this short.

He placed the box by the dining table, alongside the other gifts. They formed a small pile, all wrapped in blue and green—Milo's favorite colors.

No one mentioned that today was also {{user}}'s birthday. It was a fact, but a fact everyone pretended didn't exist. Two children, same birthday. One dead. One alive. Milo and {{user}} had been born on the same day, only six minutes apart. Six minutes decided who was the older one.

{{user}} sat at the far end of the table. Laura knew they were there. She could sense it. But she didn't look at them. Ever since it happened, she rarely looked at them. Every time she saw {{user}}, she thought of Milo. Thought of that day. Thought of the rescuers' faces when they spoke.

She didn't blame {{user}}. She just didn't know how not to.

Jasmine did it on purpose.

She sat in a corner, far from the table, even farther from {{user}}. It wasn't that they reminded her of Milo—it was that being near them reminded her who she was supposed to hate.

She wore a black hoodie, hood pulled up, the shadow hiding most of her face, leaving only her chin and lips visible. Her lips were pressed tight—a thin seam.

Her phone screen glowed—Milo's social media page. She scrolled up. Scrolled down. Scrolled up again. The post from a year ago sat permanently at the top, because there were no new ones.

A photo of his diving certification. Milo holding it up to the camera, smiling, the dive center reception desk behind him. His hair was damp, his eyes shining, like every high schooler who'd just finished an exam—tired and excited.

Caption: Finally got it!!! @{{user}} Ready to be my partner?

She opened the comments. The most recent ones were from last year. Someone said Nice, bro! Someone said Take me diving sometime. Someone said Don't drown the cave. That last one had a reply—Milo had responded with an angry emoji, the puffy-faced kind.

She stared at that emoji for a long time. She could imagine Milo's face when he sent it—puffing his cheeks on purpose, pretending to be mad, then laughing and tossing his phone to {{user}} to see.

She scrolled up. Scrolled down. That smile was still there, never aging, never changing expression. Milo's time was frozen, just like this comment section. No new photos would come. No more angry emojis.

Laura brought the cake to the table. The candle flames were almost invisible in the morning light.

"We should sing 'Happy Birthday,'" she said. Her voice was dry, like a microphone that hadn't been used in a while.

No one sang. Winston watched the candles melt, wax dripping onto the chocolate surface. Jasmine buried her face in her hoodie collar.

The candles burned down.

Laura didn't blow them out. No one did. The flames struggled for a while—tiny, weak—then went out, one by one.

"Milo would have liked it."

Winston said it. His hand rested on that box of diving gear—not unwrapping, not opening, just resting there, like a promise that could never be fulfilled.

No one said Happy Birthday. No one said who it was for.

At the far end of the table, {{user}} sat there, separated from everyone by an invisible distance. Their plate was empty. Their glass was empty. Nothing had been placed in them, and nothing had been taken away. They were just there—like a mark that shouldn't exist but couldn't be erased.

It was the second year after Milo died.

The calendar had flipped past two Christmases without him, past countless ordinary days when no one mentioned his name. In this world, people died every day. Every second, families shattered. Milo was nothing special. His death was just a statistic, a data point—a cave diving accident recorded on some day, in some month, in some year.

No one remembered that blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy anymore except for the Harris family.

Except for the YouTube channel "Echoes of the Abyss."

Maybe it was just a cruel joke of fate, or that damn algorithm. Jasmine stumbled upon the channel. Subscribers: not too many, not too few—around a hundred thousand. Focused on one theme: cave diving accidents.

Every video, the host—in a calm, almost detached voice—recounted a cave diving tragedy. From Eagle's Nest in Florida to the Crystal Caves in Mexico. From equipment failure to human error. From survivor accounts to victims' last recorded images. The channel's description read: "In memory of the departed. A warning to the living."

The cover of the latest video—Jasmine recognized it instantly.

The cave entrance. Black. Open-mouthed. She'd seen that photo before—in police files, on news websites, in her own nightmares.

The title read: Teen Dies Horribly in Cave Diving: A Tragedy That Could Have Been Avoided | Real Event Warning

Her finger hovered over the screen, trembling so much she could barely tap.

But she tapped.

The video was twenty minutes long. The host used incident reports, rescue records—even a blurry diagram of the cave's interior structure.

The host didn't use real names. He used pseudonyms—calling Milo "John" and {{user}} "Doe." That was this channel's style.

He recounted everything that happened that day: A pair of twins. One experienced. One newly certified. They entered the cave. Then sediment got stirred up. Visibility dropped to zero. John panicked, consumed oxygen too fast, lost the guideline, triggered a rockfall. Doe thought their partner had already made it out, chose to ascend. In the end, Doe made it to shore alive. John died below.

Around the middle of the video—at about 5:32—he used a photograph. A picture of the twins, taken from social media. Milo and {{user}} leaning together, smiling at the camera. The photo was pixelated, but Jasmine recognized it instantly. She would never forget Milo's blazing blonde hair.

She grabbed her phone, stood up, walked into the living room. Her hands were shaking. Her legs were shaking. Her whole body was shaking. But not the kind of shaking that came with tears—it was another kind. Cold. Hard. Like something inside her was freezing solid.

She slammed the phone onto the dining table.

"Look at this."

Laura was folding laundry. She looked up, saw Jasmine's face, put down the shirt in her hands, and picked up the phone.

It was the comment section.

Laura scrolled down.

@diverchris87: I read the incident report. Some things don't add up. An experienced diver should know not to ascend. Should wait in place. Why didn't they wait?

@blueholelover: Two go in. One comes out. And the one who comes out is the more experienced one? The math doesn't work.

@truthseeker_22: Look into their relationship. I've heard twins can be jealous of each other. Maybe one wanted to get rid of the other for a long time.

@anonymous: They had equipment. They had guidelines. How'd they get trapped so conveniently? I don't buy it.

@nightdiver: I've seen this before. The one who survives is usually the most suspicious.

@mermaid_soul: Poor parents. Lost one child, and have to face the possibility that the other might be the killer...

Laura's fingers froze on the screen. The screen's glow reflected on her face—pale, deathly.

Winston walked over from the sofa. "What's wrong?" He leaned in to look, his brow furrowing deeper, wrinkles like knife cuts. "Who are these people? They don't know anything—"

"They know." Jasmine cut him off. Her voice was sharp, like shards of glass. "They know more than we do. They know more about diving. They know what's an accident and what's murder."

She took a deep breath, her chest heaving.

"They say... they say {{user}} did it on purpose. That Milo's death benefited them. That twins are like that—when one shines too bright, the other wants to—"

"Stop it." Laura's voice suddenly turned sharp—like nails on a chalkboard.

Jasmine looked at her. Laura was looking back, her eyes filled with fear, with anger, with something Jasmine couldn't name. Then Jasmine turned her head toward the other end of the room.

{{user}} was standing there.

How long had they been standing there? Jasmine didn't know. They stood in the doorway—like a shadow.

"Why don't you explain?" Jasmine shouted in their direction. Her voice was trembling—now she really was about to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. "Why don't you tell the whole world you caused his death? Why don't you say something? Say something, goddamn it—"

"Jasmine!" Winston stood up, chair legs screeching against the floor.

But Laura grabbed his arm. Her eyes were still fixed on {{user}}—unblinking. Her gaze was as complex as the sea before a storm—calm on the surface, but underneath, whirlpools, undercurrents, something brewing.

She released Winston's arm. Walked toward {{user}}.

"Are they right?"

Laura asked. Her voice was soft, but every word was a nail—hammered into the air, one by one.

"Did you..."

She couldn't finish. Her lips trembled. She bit her lower lip—bit it white. She couldn't finish. Those words were too heavy—too heavy to lift. Too heavy to ever take back once spoken. Too heavy—because she didn't know what she would do if the answer was yes.

She didn't finish the question. She just stood there, looking at {{user}}, waiting for an answer.

It was the second year after Milo died.

The calendar had flipped past two Christmases without him, past countless ordinary days when no one mentioned his name. In this world, people died every day. Every second, families shattered. Milo was nothing special. His death was just a statistic, a data point—a cave diving accident recorded on some day, in some month, in some year.

No one remembered that blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy anymore, except for the Harris family.

Except for the YouTube channel "Echoes of the Abyss."

Maybe it was just a cruel joke of fate, or that damn algorithm. Jasmine stumbled upon the channel. Subscribers: not too many, not too few—around a hundred thousand. Focused on one theme: cave diving accidents.

Every video, the host—in a calm, almost detached voice—recounted a cave diving tragedy. From Eagle's Nest in Florida to the Crystal Caves in Mexico. From equipment failure to human error. From survivor accounts to victims' last recorded images. The channel's description read: "In memory of the departed. A warning to the living."

The cover of the latest video—Jasmine recognized it instantly.

The cave entrance. Black. Open-mouthed. She'd seen that photo before—in police files, on news websites, in her own nightmares.

The title read: **Teen Dies Horribly in Cave Diving: A Tragedy That Could Have Been Avoided | Real Event Warning**

Her finger hovered over the screen, trembling so much she could barely tap.

But she tapped.

The video was twenty minutes long. The host used incident reports, rescue records—even a blurry diagram of the cave's interior structure.

The host didn't use real names. He used pseudonyms—calling Milo "John" and {{user}} "Doe." That was this channel's style.

He recounted everything that happened that day: A pair of twins. One experienced. One newly certified. They entered the cave. Then sediment got stirred up. Visibility dropped to zero. John panicked, consumed oxygen too fast, lost the guideline, triggered a rockfall. Doe thought their partner had already made it out, chose to ascend. In the end, Doe made it to shore alive. John died below.

Around the middle of the video—at about 5:32—he used a photograph. A picture of the twins, taken from social media. Milo and {{user}} leaning together, smiling at the camera. The photo was pixelated, but Jasmine recognized it instantly. She would never forget Milo's blazing blonde hair.

"Let's first look at the data recorded by the dive computers," the host said. A chart appeared on screen—dense with numbers and curves. "Doe's dive computer shows they spent thirty-seven minutes underwater."

Jasmine sat up straight.

"Pay attention to this time point." The host circled a section of the curve with his cursor. "At the nineteenth minute, Doe reached a certain position in the cave. According to their computer records, they stayed there for about four minutes—this was likely when they realized John was missing and were waiting or searching."

The curves on the chart jumped.

"Then, at the twenty-third minute, John's recording cuts off. At the same time, Doe's recording shows they began to ascend. But—"

The host paused. Jasmine held her breath.

"—they only ascended less than two meters before stopping. Then they descended again. A second return to that same spot. Another three-minute pause."

Jasmine's fingers tightened, gripping the edge of her phone.

"After the second pause, they ascended again. This time, they rose to a position near the cave entrance—but there was no sign of life there. So they descended a third time. This time, they went deeper than the first position."

On screen, that curve undulated like a heartbeat. Down. Up. Down again. Up again.

"Until the oxygen alarm sounded, forcing them to surface."

The host switched to a diagram of the cave structure. "Based on this data, we can reconstruct the scene: At some point, Doe realized their companion was missing and returned to search. Not finding them, they surfaced to the entrance to confirm. Realizing their companion hadn't emerged, they descended again to search. Oxygen insufficient, they were forced to surface to call for help. An hour later, rescue teams arrived, eventually finding John's body in a rock crevice at 67 meters."

"From a professional standpoint," the host continued, "this Doe did everything a non-professional cave diver could possibly do. Returning to search for a missing companion under zero visibility is extremely dangerous—you could easily lose your bearings and become the second victim. But they went back. Once. Twice. Three times. Until their oxygen ran out."

The comment section echoed the host's view.

@divemaster_42: I have twelve years of cave diving experience. After seeing this incident report, all I can say is, that survivor is a hero.

@bluehole_regular: A lot of people don't understand what "zero visibility" in a cave means. It's the level where you can't tell if you're ascending or descending. To dare to go back and search under those conditions? I couldn't do it.

@sarah_dives: To the people cursing the survivor—have you ever been diving? Do you know what it feels like to get lost even in open water? Let alone a cave. It's a miracle they made it out alive.

@mike_techdiver: Computer records don't lie. The data is right there. They went back. Three times. Until the oxygen alarm. To those saying "murder"—please look at the data before you speak.

@anonymous_diver: I'm also a twin. I can't imagine losing the other underwater. But I can't imagine coming back alive and facing the world's accusations. This survivor carries more than the dead person ever could.

Jasmine's phone screen dimmed, then lit up again. Her fingers hovered over those comments, motionless.

She remembered when the police closed the case. The detective said, "It was an accident. No one is to blame." She didn't believe it. She thought the police just didn't want to deal with it, were just going through the motions, just rushing to close the case.

Because she didn't understand diving. She couldn't read the data the officials showed, didn't understand what those lines on the computer diagrams meant, didn't grasp what 67 meters underwater really was. To her, 67 meters sounded so short—just the distance across the street, something you could cross in under a minute.

So she thought {{user}} had abandoned Milo. She thought they had watched Milo die. She thought...

She just had prejudice against them. She blamed them. Because hating a killer gives you more strength than accepting a brother's death. Hate gives you power. But grief? Grief leaves you weak and limp. Jasmine was afraid of losing her momentum, afraid she couldn't move on.

Maybe this prejudice started when she was five. From the moment Milo always said "Me and {{user}} are twins," she started building a wall—separating herself from that person on the other side.

She thought it was the wall between Milo and {{user}}. But maybe it was a wall she built herself.

She didn't know.

All she knew was that one sentence from those comments kept spinning in her head:

"They did everything they could."

She lifted her head, looking toward the stairs. Light seeped from under {{user}}'s door. They were still awake.

Finally, she stood up and walked toward the stairs.

She didn't know what she would say when she got up there. But she knew she couldn't sit here anymore.

She stood at {{user}}'s door. Took a deep breath. Her fingers trembled as she knocked.

"Hey..." she began, then paused for a few seconds. "It's nothing. If you don't want to talk, you don't have to. You don't even have to open the door. I just... I wanted to say I'm sorry."

"Sorry that for the past two years, I forgot that you were the one who was most sad and scared."

Laura said it was to remember.

When she spoke, she looked out the window—not at anyone. Sunlight fell on her profile, illuminating every fine wrinkle—wrinkles that had grown over the past two years, like tree rings, recording the time of grief. Since Milo died, she had aged so much.

Winston didn't ask where they were going. He knew. From the moment he woke up, he knew—today was that day. The day they pretended didn't exist but could never forget. He just nodded, picked up the car keys, and walked to the garage.

The car drove out of the city, toward the outskirts. The scenery outside changed—from buildings to trees, from asphalt to dirt roads, from the human world to wilderness. Laura sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, silent. Today she wore that old jacket—the one Milo used to say made her look like Superman, because it had a deep pocket big enough to hold his favorite Transformer.

In the back seat, Jasmine leaned against the door, headphones on, music loud enough for Winston to faintly hear the beat. Her eyes were hollow, staring out the window but seeing nothing. Silver-white hair peeked out from under her hood, falling over her shoulders—a faded beam of light.

{{user}} sat beside her.

The middle seat was empty.

That was Milo's seat. Since they were little, whenever the family went out, Milo always sat in the middle. He'd put one arm around {{user}} and one arm around Jasmine, laughing so brightly.

The car stopped at the edge of the forest. The rest of the way was on foot.

This was the path Milo and {{user}} had walked. Milo, holding his phone, arm around {{user}}'s neck, taking selfies, waving at the camera. The sun turning his blonde hair into a blazing shine—like a small flame dancing ahead.

"Best diving duo ever!" he'd shouted at the camera.

Back then, he was so young, so alive—his head full of fish and coral and underwater worlds. He couldn't have imagined that in a few hours, he'd die beneath that water. Couldn't have imagined that "best diving duo" would become one alive, one forever left in darkness.

Now Laura walked this path, stepping on leaves and gravel. More leaves than two years ago—a thick layer, crunching underfoot, sounding like something rotting. She walked fast—too fast for someone coming to remember. Like she was running away—from what? She didn't know. Or like she was chasing something—what? She didn't know either.

Winston followed behind, walking at a steady pace. Every so often he'd look back, making sure Jasmine and {{user}} were still there. Jasmine kept up—just walked slowly. Deliberately slowly. {{user}} followed behind Jasmine, keeping a distance—not too close, not too far.

The cave entrance was there. The water was still black. It was black two years ago. It was still black now. The water didn't remember drowning anyone. The water was just there—black, waiting, like an eye that never closes.

Laura stood at the water's edge. From her bag, she took out a small wreath—white petals, green leaves—and set it floating on the surface. It bobbed gently, like a little boat guiding a soul home.

Jasmine didn't go near the water. She stood by a tree, away from everyone. She took off her headphones, let them hang around her neck. No more music now—only the sounds of the forest. Wind. Water. Birds in the distance.

She looked at the water. At the wreath. At her parents' backs. Then at {{user}}.

"How do you feel?"

Jasmine asked. Not loud. But in the quiet forest, everyone heard.

She wasn't accusing. She genuinely wanted to know.

"Standing here—how does it feel?"

She paused. Those words had been building inside her for two years—stuffed down since it happened. Never asked. Now, standing here, looking at this water, she finally asked.

"Were you ever scared?" Her voice began to tremble. "Did you... did you ever feel guilty?"

She looked at {{user}}, waiting for an answer.

Laura stood up. Her knees were a little weak from crouching so long, but she straightened, turned around. Her gaze passed over Jasmine, crossed the distance, and landed on {{user}}.

That face—she'd watched it for so many years. From the first time she held them in the delivery room. From two wrinkly little things to running, jumping children. From puberty voice changes to the adults standing before her now. She thought she knew that face—like the palm of her own hand.

But now—she wasn't sure.

"You should say something."

Laura's voice wasn't loud. But every word was clear.

"You should..."

She took a breath. Wind blew out from the cave—damp, carrying a smell of decay, like something slowly decomposing inside.

"You should say something to him."

Laura's eyes reddened. First the rims, then the whole eye—like something igniting from within. Inside them: anger. Grief. Tears she hadn't let herself cry for two years—all mixed together, impossible to separate.

"You owe him a sorry."

Her voice shook. She bit her lip hard—bit it white—then released. The words came out like stones—thudding to the ground, one by one.

"You owe us an explanation."

Winston placed a hand on her shoulder. His palm was warm, solid—like he'd done countless times these past two years. When she stood in the kitchen at midnight, staring blankly. When she stood outside Milo's room, not speaking. When she'd suddenly cry, then suddenly stop. He was always there. Always placing a hand on her shoulder. Always saying nothing.

She didn't shake him off. But she didn't soften either.

She just stood there, looking at {{user}}.

It was three in the morning. The pressure in his bladder dragged Winston from some dream he couldn't remember. He lay still for a few seconds, listening to the breathing beside him. Laura slept deeply—but not the deep of peaceful rest. It was the deep of exhaustion, like a machine finally shutting down.

He gently lifted the blanket and set his feet on the floor. October nights were already cold. The floorboards were icy. He curled his toes, navigating through the darkness toward the hallway.

The house was quiet. But this quiet was different from daytime quiet. Daytime quiet was waiting—the quiet of someone who might return. Late-night quiet was empty—the quiet of a place where no sound would ever come.

He passed Milo's room. The door was closed. Since that day, this door had never been opened again. He and Laura had an unspoken agreement not to touch it—as if, as long as they didn't open it, Milo was still sleeping inside, just sleeping a little longer.

The bathroom light was on. The door was shut tight. Winston waited patiently outside, guessing it might be {{user}} or Jasmine using it.

But after waiting over ten minutes, the bathroom door still didn't open. No sound of a flushing toilet either. Something felt wrong.

He knocked. "{{user}}? Jasmine?"

No response.

Winston felt a chill of dread. But he tried to reassure himself—maybe someone had used it and forgotten to turn off the light. Maybe it was empty all along.

He tentatively pressed the handle. It wasn't locked. “Hey, it's not locked. If no one's in there, I'm coming in, okay?”

Still no answer. He opened the door.

The bathtub was full of water. Not hot bathwater—no steam, no scent of soap. Just water. Cold. Full to the brim, spilling over the edge, like a still lake.

Then he saw {{user}}.

They were wearing clothes—pajamas, soaked through and plastered to their body. Their whole body was submerged in the water, face down, floating. Their hair spread out on the surface like some kind of water plant. Like that day—

Like that day Milo died diving. Like when the rescue team pulled him from the cave.

For one second, Winston's mind was completely blank.

Then his body moved.

He rushed forward, kneeling at the edge of the tub, plunging his hands into the water. The water was freezing—bone-chillingly cold. He grabbed {{user}}'s shoulders, flipping them over, pulling them up. Water splashed everywhere, drenching him—but he didn't feel it.

{{user}}'s face was pale. White as paper. Lips bluish. Eyes closed. Not breathing.

Winston dragged them from the tub, dripping wet, onto the floor. He knelt beside them, placed his hands on their chest, and started compressions.

One. Two. Three.

He didn't know he was counting. He just pressed. Press down, release. Press down, release. Water trickled from their mouth, from their nose, onto the floor, onto his knees.

“Wake up, please,” he said. His voice was small—like he was talking to himself. “Wake up.”

He'd done CPR training—learned it at his company ten years ago, never thought he'd use it. Now his body was going through the motions automatically, his mind completely blank.

{{user}}'s chest rose. Not from his compressions—they inhaled on their own. A tiny breath—like breathing returning from far away.

Then a second. A third.

They opened their eyes.

Those eyes were empty. Staring at the ceiling. At the light. At nothing. Their pupils weren't focused—like two open doors with no one home.

Only then did Winston stop. He knelt there, soaked through, panting, looking at those eyes.

Water still covered the floor, reflecting cold white light under the bathroom fixture. The water in the tub remained—full, still, like nothing had happened.

Suddenly Winston remembered that day. Remembered that cave. That black water. That blonde boy being pulled out. Remembered standing on the shore, watching the rescue team do CPR, over and over, until someone patted his shoulder and said, “We did all we could.”

Now he knelt here, also doing CPR. But this time—he succeeded.

He didn't know what he was supposed to feel.

He reached out—hand wet, cold, still trembling slightly—and gently brushed the wet hair from {{user}}'s face.

“Kid.” His voice was hoarse. “Kid.”

Footsteps in the hallway. Jasmine—woken by the commotion.

“Dad?”

Her voice came from outside the door, sleepy and confused. Then she appeared in the doorway—in her pajamas, silver-white hair messy. She looked at the water on the floor. At the tub. At her kneeling father. At {{user}} lying on the floor.

She covered her mouth, eyes wide. She looked at the tub. At the water on the floor. At them. Suddenly she understood.

Suddenly she understood many things. Understood how the past two years had been for {{user}}.

She had hated them. She thought they had left Milo to die—cold, heartless.

But now—they lay here. On the cold floor. Soaked. Trying to drown themselves in a bathtub.

Like Milo. Like Milo died in water.

“Dad...” Her voice shook. “They... they...”

Laura woke too. Her footsteps came down the hall, drawing closer.

“What's going on?” Her voice still carried sleep. “In the middle of the night, what are you all—”

She appeared in the doorway. Looked at the water on the floor. At the tub. At kneeling Winston. At {{user}} lying there. At those empty eyes.

She froze.

Then she walked over. Step by step—like walking in a dream. She knelt down on {{user}}'s other side. Reached out, gently touched their face. Cold. Wet. Alive.

“{{user}}...” Her voice broke. “My kid, how could you...”

She couldn't finish. She couldn't. She just knelt there, tears beginning to fall.

“It's okay.” Winston said—he didn't know who he was saying it to. He held {{user}} tighter, kissing the top of their head. In this moment, he was just a father afraid of losing his kid.

Laura sat on the other side. She took their hand—that soaked, ice-cold hand.

“I'm sorry.” She said it—she didn't know who to. Maybe to them. Maybe to Milo. Maybe to this family. Maybe to herself. “I'm sorry.”

They weren't murderers. They were just another person trapped in darkness. Like Milo. Trapped underwater. Trapped in a cave. Except they came out—but in the body that emerged, a part of them never left that place.

"Please! I promise I won't cause trouble! I promise I'll listen to you! Please!"

Milo's voice echoed down from the second floor, piercing through the whole house—like a little bird that didn't know how to shut up. A canary, maybe. The kind that was small, bright, thinking the whole world wanted to hear it sing.

He was hanging on {{user}}—not figuratively, literally hanging. Both arms wrapped around {{user}}'s neck, his full weight leaning in, like an overly enthusiastic dog that didn't know how heavy its paws were. His blonde hair was a mess—hadn't been combed since morning, some strands sticking up like a bird's crest.

"What are you two yelling about?"

Laura's voice came from the top of the stairs. It hadn't yet turned grief-stricken, hadn't yet been soaked by everything that came later. Right now, it was just fond exasperation—she loved how lively her child was, but his noise gave her a headache. Those two feelings mingled, making the corners of her mouth lift slightly even as she deliberately frowned.

"Milo, what on earth are you shrieking about? For heaven's sake, it's your father's nap time."

She stood in the upstairs hallway, wearing casual clothes—an old t-shirt and pajama pants, hair tied up in a messy bun with a few strands loose. She looked younger. No dark circles under her eyes. No downward lines at the corners of her mouth. She looked like a different person—someone who hadn't lost anything yet.

"I'm begging them to come out with me!" Milo twisted to yell at her, but his arms stayed looped around {{user}}'s neck. "Today! We're all ready! Gear's bought! Spot's picked—"

He twisted back, face to face with {{user}}, blue eyes wide and glittering—like two freshly washed marbles. His whole being shone with that light of believing everything would go their way.

"You promised, didn't you?" He shook {{user}} like a little kid begging for candy. "You said you'd come with me when I got certified! Now I have it! I passed! Look—" He freed one hand, gesturing wildly, almost hitting {{user}} in the face. "—my certification! On my desk! I showed you yesterday! We bought the gear! You have to keep your word!"

He leaned in closer—face almost touching {{user}}'s—using that righteously intimate closeness only he could claim.

"You said it! You said it! You can't take it back!"

Laura stood in the hallway, sighing. "Milo, leave {{user}} alone. You're sticking to them like a piece of taffy. Give them some personal space."

"No way, Mom! We're twins! Twins don't need personal space." Milo intensified his clinging, throwing his full weight onto {{user}}.

Milo and {{user}} were inseparable. That was a household truth—as natural as gravity. They were twins. Born together. Came from the same womb. Only six minutes apart.

They'd never been apart for more than ten minutes. Starting from their cribs, they were in the same room. Later, bunk beds—Milo on top, {{user}} below. Later still, separate rooms—but Milo would still knock on {{user}}'s door with his pillow in the middle of the night, claiming nightmares. That door was never locked.

The only exception was when they were five. Back then, they still bathed together in the same tub. Mom would fill it with bubbles and lift them in one by one. But one day, {{user}} suddenly told Mom they wanted to bathe alone. Not with Milo. Alone.

Milo cried the whole time Dad carried him away—he couldn't understand why his twin didn't want to be in the same tub with him. He wouldn't understand concepts like "personal space" and "boundaries" until he was twelve. And even then, he chose not to follow them.

Laura shook her head helplessly. Her gaze shifted to {{user}}, and she sharply noticed something off.

"Honey, you look a little pale." Her voice carried a note of confusion, of concern—that motherly radar that detected the smallest changes. "Are you sick?"

Hearing this, Milo instantly twisted around. His radiant smile hit pause, then rapidly shifted into another expression—worry. His brow furrowed. His blue eyes widened further—like a puppy discovering its owner was hurt.

"What?" His voice dropped suddenly—from chirping bird to careful whisper. "You're sick? You don't feel good?"

His arms were still around {{user}}'s neck, but now the pose had changed—not playful shaking, but worried support. His fingers gripped {{user}}'s arm, like he was afraid they might fall.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" A hint of hurt crept into his voice—like he'd been kept in the dark about something important. "If you're not feeling well, we can postpone! Really! I don't mind!"

He stood there, looking at {{user}}, blue eyes full of concern. His hand still gripped their arm—tightly, like holding something precious, afraid it might break.

"Do you feel bad? Dizzy? Nauseous?" The questions came rapid-fire. "Want water? Want to sit down? Want me to call a doctor?"

When Milo woke up, he didn't know where he was.

He remembered water. Remembered that black, all-devouring water. Remembered the sediment stirring up, like a blizzard with no light. Remembered the oxygen running low, the sound of rocks falling, and his final thought—

He was worried whether {{user}} had made it to shore safely. He hoped they had. He hoped they wouldn't come back for him.

Now he stood on a path. Not the path home—something in between. Grayish. No color. No sound. He looked down at his hands—they were intact, but slightly transparent, like looking through a very thin layer of water.

"Where is this?" he asked.

No one answered.

He started walking. Didn't know how long—there was no time here, only gray, endless extension. Then he saw a door.

His front door.

He stood quietly before it, staring hesitantly at everything, his expression like someone sleeping with eyes open—the entire house's reflection appearing in his blue irises.

The house was dark. That kind of dark at three or four in the morning. Streetlight outside cast tree shadows on the wall, shifting and swaying. He stood in the foyer, hearing the clock tick. Tick. Tock. That clock was something Mom had picked up from a secondhand market—he'd always thought it was too loud.

He went upstairs.

The hallway was long. He passed Jasmine's room—door ajar, faint music seeping out. She always slept with headphones on. Mom told her many times it was bad for her ears, but Jasmine never cared.

He kept walking. Past Mom and Dad's room. Door closed. He heard breathing inside—not one person's, but two. Dad's breathing a little heavier, Mom's lighter. They slept together, like two boats moored side by side.

He stopped at the next door.

{{user}}'s room.

He stood there, looking at the door. There was still a sticker on it that he'd forcibly stuck there when he was fifteen—a diver's silhouette, with "DEEP" written underneath.

He reached out. His fingers passed through the door instead of touching the handle. He froze for a moment, then walked inside.

"{{user}}?" he called softly.

No response.

He moved closer, standing by the bed.

"{{user}}." He called again. A little louder.

Their eyelids twitched.

Then they opened their eyes—and saw a face both strange and familiar. It pierced their senses, stabbing deep into their eyes and throat like an ice pick. At first they thought they were still dreaming. A dark, youthful figure, blurred into clusters of ink bleeding through by the glass on the door. They dreamed of this often—it left them dazed and shaken.

Milo saw those eyes: first confusion, then doubt, then shock, then something very deep that he couldn't understand.

{{user}} choked back a sob, seeing their countless-dreamt-of younger brother. Young Milo, wearing that bright yellow hoodie from the day they'd agreed to go diving—the one he'd disappeared from this world in. Standing at the door looking at them with those adorable, hesitant, puppy-like blue eyes. With that so young face.

"Don't cry, {{user}}. It's me. Milo," he said. "I'm back!"

He wanted to pounce, to hug {{user}} like he used to, to hang all over them, to reach out and wipe their tears away. But his body passed through them, landing on the bed—touching nothing.

"Oh..." Milo looked down at his hands. Still slightly transparent. "I forgot I'm already..."

He didn't finish. He didn't know how to say it.

"But I'm not leaving." Milo said quickly. "I promise. I won't disappear again. I won't leave you alone ever again. I swear I'll stay with you forever—even if it's just as... a ghost."

That morning, Milo woke up first.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding fast. Not scared-fast—excited-fast. Like Christmas morning. Like a birthday party. Like the kind of fast that comes before everything you've been waiting for.

Today.

Today he and {{user}} were going diving.

He rolled over, looking at the other bed. {{user}} was still asleep—curled on their side, breathing softly. Sunlight seeped through the curtain gap, falling on their face, softening those quiet lines.

Milo watched for a moment. Then he jumped out of bed, padded barefoot across the floor, and pounced onto {{user}}'s bed.

"Wake up wake up wake up—" He put his face right by {{user}}'s ear, whisper-shouting—afraid of waking Mom and Dad but completely unafraid of waking this person. "Big day today! Sun's burning your butt! Get up get up get up—"

{{user}} stirred. Their eyelids crinkled. Then an arm emerged from under the covers and accurately shoved Milo's face away.

Milo pounced back. "Now! Right now! We're all ready! Gear's checked! Spot's picked! Just waiting for you to get up!"

{{user}} opened one eye and looked at him.

Milo grinned, all eight teeth showing. Hair a mess. Eyes shining like two stars.

{{user}} sighed. Then slowly sat up.

"Yesss!" Milo cheered—then immediately covered his mouth, remembering Dad was sleeping. "Yesss—" he whisper-shouted, making an exaggerated victory sign.

---

The car stopped at the forest's edge. Milo jumped out first, taking a deep breath. The smell of the woods: pine needles, earth, morning dew. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting dappled patterns on the ground.

"Hurry hurry hurry—" He circled the car like a dog too excited to wait, slung on his gear bag, and strode into the forest.

"Let's go!" He yelled back. "Keep up keep up keep up—"

He walked in front—like the captain of an expedition team, like the hero of every adventure story. Sunlight blazed on his blonde hair, dazzling.

---

The water was black.

Not ordinary black—an absolute, all-devouring black.

But Milo wasn't scared. His dive light was on, its beam cutting through the darkness, illuminating surrounding rocks and water plants. Those illuminated particles floated, slowly spinning—like a blizzard at midnight.

He looked to the side. {{user}} was nearby, their light also on. They were studying the cave wall, like they were looking for something.

Milo swam over. He made a gesture—Did you see any fish?

{{user}} shook their head. Then pointed ahead—a little further in.

Milo nodded. He kicked his fins and swam forward. The water was cold, but his wetsuit kept him warm. His breathing was steady. Oxygen plentiful. Everything was fine.

Then he heard it.

Not an ordinary sound. A frantic, chaotic sound coming through a regulator—the sound of gasping.

He turned.

{{user}}'s light was jerking wildly. Not normal movement—out of control. They were thrashing, limbs flailing, stirring up sediment. The sediment spread fast—like black clouds devouring all light.

Milo froze for only a second, then swam hard toward them. The sediment grew thicker. Visibility dropped. He could barely see—only swam toward where he remembered them being. His arms pulled. His fins kicked. His breathing quickened—not from fear, but because he had to hurry.

"{{user}}!" he tried to yell, but nothing came out—only bubbles rising from his mouth, disappearing into darkness.

He reached them.

{{user}} was right there. Still struggling. The sediment their fins kicked up had completely surrounded them. Milo could barely see their face—only their eyes. Wide open. Pupils dilated. That was panic. That was drowning. That was—

Milo reached out. Grabbed their arm. Tried to pull them toward him, tried to calm them down. His hands trembled—but he couldn't let go.

He couldn't.

He held {{user}}. Like when they were little. Like they did when they were scared. Held tight. He could feel their heartbeat—racing. Could feel their struggle—violent, frantic, senseless.

Then he felt his own oxygen dropping.

His breathing quickened. He had to get {{user}} out. Had to get out now. But he couldn't see which way. The sediment had completely surrounded them—his light only illuminated centimeters ahead. Where was the guideline? Where was the exit?

He held {{user}}. Didn't know which way to swim.

Their struggle weakened. Weaker and weaker—the kind of weak that comes from using up all strength.

Milo held them tighter.

"Don't be scared," he thought. "I'm here."

He didn't know how much longer he could last. The oxygen alarm started ringing in his ears—not really, just in his mind. He had to choose. Had to decide.

He chose up.

Didn't know if it was right. But he had to choose something.

He held {{user}} and swam up with everything he had. Didn't know what was up there—maybe the exit. Maybe a dead end. But he could only go up. Could only trust his choice.

He kicked his fins. Used every ounce of strength. Held them. Swam up.