Not because of the medicine.

Not because her son had nearly missed a dose.

But because of one word.

Twin.

She stared at the delivery man like he had just spoken a language pulled out of a grave.

“That’s impossible,” she whispered.

The delivery man’s expression hardened with confusion. “Then why did the woman downstairs have your face?”

Camila didn’t answer.

Because she already knew.

Or at least the part of her that never fully stopped being afraid knew.

Years earlier, her family had buried a story so deep that even saying it aloud felt dangerous: Camila had not been born alone. There had been another baby. Another girl. But after a fire in the maternity ward and a rushed transfer to another hospital, her parents were told only one daughter survived.

No body.
No records.
No questions.

Her father paid to make the papers disappear. Her mother drank herself quiet. And Camila grew up in a house where mirrors always felt slightly wrong.

She looked past the delivery man toward the elevator.

Gone.

The woman downstairs was gone.

Camila grabbed the medicine from his hands and turned to rush inside, but he caught one more detail before the door closed:

a small boy on the couch, pale and wheezing, clutching a stuffed rabbit with one button eye missing.

The same rabbit.

The exact same one the woman downstairs had dropped when she brushed past him.

He saw it then — not a similar toy.

A match.

Camila gave the medicine to her son with shaking hands. Within moments, his breathing eased enough for him to speak.

He looked at her, frightened.

“Mom,” he whispered, “why was Auntie Mira here again?”

Camila went still.

The delivery man, still standing in the half-open doorway, heard every word.

“Auntie who?” he asked.

Camila slowly turned back toward him, all color drained from her face.

“She isn’t his aunt,” she said.

Her son looked confused. “But she told me she’s the one who was supposed to live here. She said this used to be her life.”

The hallway seemed to tilt.

The delivery man took one slow step back.

Because this was no longer just a mistaken confrontation.

It was something older. Darker.

Something planned.

Camila’s hands trembled around the medicine bottle.

“My sister didn’t die,” she whispered. “She was taken.”

The little boy looked toward the hallway and said the final thing that made Camila’s blood run cold:

“She said when my breathing got bad enough… you’d finally open the door.”