Chapter 15 · Don't Follow Her

The hand was small. Pale. A kid's hand.

And it knew my name.

"Layla," the voice said again, soft and sweet, like something from a dream I'd forgotten years ago. "Come down here. I've been waiting."

I couldn't move. My legs locked up, feet rooted to the sand like I'd grown there. The wind had stopped. Everything had stopped. Just me and that hand, reaching up from the crack in the earth, fingers curling in a come-here gesture.

"Don't." Kira's voice cut through the static in my head. She grabbed my wrist, yanked me back a step. Her grip was tight enough to hurt. "Don't look at it. Don't answer."

But I was already looking. Already listening.

Because the voice—it sounded like Mom.

Not exactly. Not perfectly. But close enough that my chest squeezed, close enough that I wanted to believe it. The hand waved, impatient now, and I heard a laugh. Light. Familiar. The kind of laugh Mom used to make when she was teasing me about eating ice cream for breakfast.

"Layla, baby, it's cold down here. Come help me up."

I took a step forward.

Kira's hand tightened. "Layla. Stop."

"That's her," I said.