The Eighth Ward

The bracelet tears free. My wrist screams—but the pain isn’t mine. It’s hers.

A girl’s face flickers in the corner of my vision. Pale. Hollow-eyed. She clutches her own wrist where the bracelet should be. Her lips move—

‘You took my turn.’

Then she’s gone. But the whisper lingers, threading through the hum of the flickering light.

And my wrist—

It’s smooth. Unmarked. As if the bracelet was never there.