The voice — the layered, uncanny voice — told a story. Not a story in the way the Sisters usually did, with neat morals and lists of local births, but a map made of memory. It spoke of doors that opened under moonlight, of clocks that ran backward in certain rooms, of a girl who’d swapped names with a gull and vanished into a rope ladder of fog. The words were small at first, like pebbles dropped into a bowl, then the ripples reached Mira’s chest and tugged at something she’d kept submerged for years: the day her sister Lysa had left the shoreline and never come ashore again.

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