Sarah bolted through the nearest door and found herself back in the attic. The loop slammed her chest like a heart attack. The four original children sat waiting, legs swinging off the edge of the open floor. Between them was the fifth spot—now a perfectly Sarah-shaped hole cut into the floorboards, edges still smoking. They patted it lovingly. “We measured twice,” they chorused. Mike stood behind them holding a roll of red ribbon and a needle the size of a railroad spike. “Almost family portrait time,” he said, voice tender. The ribbon unspooled by itself, slithering toward her ankles like a friendly snake. Sarah looked down: her shadow on the floor wasn’t hers anymore. It had four small shadows clinging to it, and it was smiling without her.
