Page 59 of Molt

“August.”

I unfold the paper.

Four words.

That’s all. Four fucking words.

DON’T LET HER FINISH.

Lenora reads over my shoulder and her breath catches. “What does that mean?”

I stare at my handwriting. Old. Older than anything in the apartment. And suddenly I know exactly why I don’t remember the tooth. Why I don’t remember the note. Why this cycle is different. Because maybe Lenora isn’t the only one who’s been forgetting.

My eyes lift to hers.

She sees the realization. “What?”

I look at the woman I’ve loved across more than a century. The woman who has killed me eight times. The woman I kissed less than a minute ago because apparently even death can’t teach me self-control.

And for the first time, I wonder if I’ve misunderstood what happened to us from the beginning.

“Lenora.”

“What?”

“I don’t think you’re the one doing this to me.”

Her face goes still. “Then who is?”

I look at the tooth. At the hair. At the warning written in my own hand. “I don’t know.”

A sound comes from upstairs.

My apartment. Glass breaking. We both look toward the ceiling.

Then another and another.

My blood goes cold.

The jars.

I run.

Lenora follows me.

“Stay here.”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

I don’t have time to argue.

We race into the hallway and up the stairs.

My apartment door is open. I know I closed it. Inside, the lights flicker. Glass covers the floor. Every jar from 1897 has shattered. Every single one.

Except Specimen 08.

It sits perfectly intact in the center of the floor.