JFK Airport felt safer than Lena's apartment. Crowds meant people were around. Bright lights meant fewer shadows.
At the baggage check, the agent frowned at the old book. "You need to put that in a bin."
"It's a fragile 15th-century—"
Before she could finish, the book suddenly felt weightless. The agent picked it up with ease, even though Lena knew it usually felt as heavy as a brick.
"See? Not heavy at all." He tossed it onto the conveyor belt.
Lena stared in shock as the book disappeared into the x-ray machine—and didn't come out.
"Sir, where—"
The agent looked confused. "Where what?"
"The book I just handed you!"
He glanced at the screen. "Ma'am, you haven't handed me anything."
Mira tugged on her arm. "It does this sometimes. We'll find it on the plane."
Then things started vanishing—first their boarding passes, then Mira's ID. By the time they reached security, every document tied to their trip was gone—missing from bags, pockets, and even phones.
TSA held them for two hours. By the time they got through, their flight had already left.
Lena slumped at the gate. "It doesn't want us to leave."
Mira checked the fading scars on her arms. "We'll try again tomorrow. But tonight..."
They got a room in the airport hotel. That night, Lena dreamed of a black door leaking smoke. Behind it, something scratched in rhythm with her heartbeat.
She woke to screaming. Mira was in the bathroom, standing over the sink. Her reflection in the mirror moved on its own—its mouth wide in a silent scream, fingers raking the glass like claws.
The real Mira grabbed her. "It's found me again. I can't go with you."
Lena tried to argue, but Mira shoved her toward the door. "Run! Don't look—"
There was a sickening, wet tearing sound. The lights went out. Something heavy hit the carpet behind her.
Lena ran. In the elevator, her phone buzzed with a news alert: an unidentified woman had been found dead at the JFK Hilton. No further details.
The book was in her backpack again, even though she'd seen it vanish. It was open to a new page—Mira's full name, dates, and underneath:
Cause of death: returned to the game.
Below that, Lena saw her own name—next to a flight number and time for tomorrow.
The Witness had chosen.
As the elevator doors opened, every shiny surface in the lobby reflected the same thing: a pale, bony figure walking down a jet bridge, one long hand sliding gently over the empty seat beside it.
---