The hallway at St Dymphna’s was hot that summer morning. Pretty soon the heat would be unbearable, save for the pockets of cooling that the clunky AC units brought them. It had taken Joanie a few minutes to rouse herself from the sofa she had found her sweaty back stuck to when she had been called.

Mrs Qadir had been waiting for her near the door to her office. She smiled as she approached and Joanie quickly realised she wasn’t alone.

“Joanie, this is Trey,” Mrs Qadir said, her voice gentle as she stepped aside.

A boy emerged from behind her. Thirteen, twelve, maybe. A young kid with dark skin and curls that stuck out in uneven directions, as if he had tried to flatten them and given up halfway through. His eyes were wide and uncertain, taking in the hallway as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to look at anything for too long. When he finally let out a smile, it was bright and warm and completely unguarded. It lit up the whole hallway.

“Hey,” he said, lifting a hand in a small wave. He was clearly nervous yet masking it behind a front of confidence.

Mrs Qadir gave Joanie’s shoulder a soft squeeze before leaving them alone.

The silence that followed felt thick. Joanie stared at him, unsure what she was supposed to say.

Trey shifted his weight, glancing at the scuffed skirting boards, then back at her. He looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to start.

“Um… I can show you where we play outside. If you want.”

“Yeah. That’d be cool.”

She started walking, slow enough that he could keep up. The hallway stretched ahead of them, warm light spilling across the floorboards. She felt a small flicker of pride at showing him around.

They reached the front door and Joanie reached for the handle.

She froze. Something was wrong.

The light shifted. The air thinned. The colours bent at the edges.

A cold ripple ran through her chest.

“This didn’t happen…” She whispered it before she even understood why.

Trey’s voice faded mid‑breath.

She turned to find he wasn’t there. The hallway was empty.

Her pulse spiked.

“Stop.” she whispered. Her voice echoed here.

A cold presence seeped through the hallway like frost creeping across glass. She felt him
behind her, not as a body but as a pressure. A cold intelligence. A searching hunger.

“Turn your head.” He ordered.

Her neck moved before she could stop it.

She faced the wall.

“Interesting.” His voice threaded through the memory. “This architecture. Mid‑century municipal. Reinforced beams. Narrow corridors. Built cheaply but meant to last.”

Joanie’s stomach dropped.

He was looking through her eyes.

A strange ache bloomed in her chest as the truth settled. This was not like Marth. Whereas the touch of his mind had had a softness to it, this was the opposite. It felt like it was pressing into her skull like ice water.

“Look at the ceiling.” He commanded.

Her gaze lifted against her will.

A faint vibration ran through the plaster barely visible, as she clenched her fist at her side. It was barely audible, but enough to form a small crack above the doorframe, thin as a pencil line.

He didn’t notice though, he was too busy taking in the building.

“This style was common in the east of the city,” he murmured.“Near the river. Or the old industrial quarter.”

Her breath hitched.

“Get out.” She panted

“Open the door.”

Her hand moved toward the handle. She fought it, her fingers trembling.

Her breath shook. “No.”

The crack widened, dust drifting from it like falling ash.

The hallway flickered.

She became her at eight years old, backpack too big for her shoulders, walking toward the same front door with Mrs Qadir’s hand in hers.

Joanie’s breath caught. She tried to stop her younger self’s hand from reaching the handle. She pushed against the memory, forcing her arm to lock at the elbow.

The door vibrated and the frame shuddered.

The crack above it split wider, jagged like a faultline.

“Show me.” he commanded, speaking angrily though Mrs Qadir. His voice was more firm this time. Gone was the calm and composed tone he’d begun with.

“No.”

The hallway warped again and she was fifteen, moving down the steps with Mina in toe. The sound of rain emanating from beyond.

Her fifteen‑year‑old hand reached for the handle.

“Stop.” She begged.

The crack tore downward, splitting the frame as the vibration deepened. The air hummed.

“You cannot hide it forever.”

“I’m not hiding.” she said. “I’m fighting.”

The memory flickered and she was back to first thing this morning, about to leave for her first day at Marth’s family’s B&B. Her bag was slung over her shoulder. She remembered the excitement. The nerves. The hope she’d do well. Oh how today had changed.

But her hand rose toward the handle again.

“I’m not doing this.” She stated, gritting her teeth as she fought against the force of his control. “You can’t make me.”

The crack ripped across the wall.

The floor trembled. The vibration ran up her legs like a warning.

“Enough.” he said.

“Then get out.”

Her power stirred. So she let it out.

A tremor erupted from her, running through the memory. The hallway shook and the walls shivered. The floor cracked like ice. The crack above the door split open, jagged and violent, tearing through the plaster like a wound.

The Icelander’s voice faltered.

“…what is that?”

Joanie’s eyes burned. “Me.”

The quake hit.

It was a seismic burst of thought. A shockwave of will. A mental tremor that tore through the memory like a faultline splitting open.

The hallway shattered and the entire image collapsed into dust and light.

---

The world rebuilt itself around her, but it wasn’t hers. It was cold and bitter. Snow pressed against her boots. A grey sky hung low over a sparse wood, the trees thin and crooked, their branches rattling in the wind like bones. Joanie’s breath fogged in the air, but it wasn’t her breath. Her lungs felt smaller. Her coat felt thinner. Her hands were smaller, trembling inside sleeves that barely kept out the cold.

She wasn’t herself. She was him.

She realised it with a jolt that made her stomach twist. She was seeing through his eyes. Feeling his breath. Hearing his heartbeat hammer against his ribs.

And he was running.

Branches whipped past her face. Snow crunched underfoot. Her lungs burned. Her legs ached. She stumbled through the trees, desperate to get away from the voices behind her.

“Haltu, gráhúfa!”

Stop, gray‑head.

“Komdu hingað, skrímsli!”

Come here, monster.

“Grákrakki!”

Gray brat.

The insults hit her like stones. They were cruel and spat with the venom of boys who had learned to hate before they even learned to shave.

She understood them. She didn’t know how. But she understood them.

Three boys crashed through the trees behind her, older, broader, wrapped in thicker coats. Their boots thudded against the snow. Their laughter was jagged, cruel, echoing through the wood.

“Þú ert ekki eins og við!”

You’re not like us.

“Hættu að fela þig, gráhúfa!”

Stop hiding, gray‑head.

Joanie’s breath hitched. She felt the panic rising in his chest. Felt the sting of cold on his cheeks. Felt the humiliation burning under his skin.

She tripped over a buried root and fell hard into the snow. The cold swallowed her. Her palms stung. Her breath shook.

The boys reached her.

One grabbed her sleeve and yanked her upright. Another shoved her back down. The third kicked snow into her face, laughing as it stuck to her lashes.

“Sjáðu hann.”

Look at him.

“Veikburða.”

Weakling.

“Grákrakki.”

Gray brat.

Joanie felt the shame like a physical blow. She felt the helplessness. Felt the fury simmering
beneath it, small and quiet and dangerous.

The tallest boy picked up a rock and threw it.

It struck her cheek with a sickening crack. Pain exploded across her face. Warm blood trickled down her skin, stark against the cold.

Joanie gasped.

He gasped.

Their breaths were one and she hated it.

The boys laughed as she touched her cheek, wincing slightly at the pain.

Something seemed to happen at that moment. It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was quiet; a small, internal break. As if a line had been crossed.

Joanie felt the shift. She felt the cold inside him sharpen into something else.

He stood slowly.

The boys faltered as she outstretched her palms towards one.

“Hvað-?”

What-?

She reached for the nearest boy and Joanie felt her fingers close around the boy’s face. Felt the skin under her palm. Felt the boy’s breath catch.

Then she felt the drain.

It wasn’t physical. It wasn’t visible.
It was a pull.
A hollowing.

A quiet, terrible hunger. The boy’s eyes widened as his skin paled. His body shrivelled in seconds, compressing against his bones, before he collapsed into the snow, lifeless.

Joanie screamed inside her own mind.

“Stop. Stop, please stop!” She begged.

But he couldn’t hear her.

She moved to the next boy. They tried to run but unfortunately he didn’t get far.

She grabbed his wrist, yanked him close, and drained him too. The boy’s knees buckled and his breath vanished. His body fell limp beside the first.

Joanie felt sick. She felt horrified. She felt the cold hunger tearing through her like a storm.

The last boy, the tallest one who had thrown the rock, stumbled backward, tripping over a tree root. He fell hard, scrambling in the snow, eyes wide with terror.

“Ekki… ekki…”

No… no…

She stepped toward him.

Joanie felt the fury. The humiliation. The years of cruelty. The cold power rising like a tide within her.

“Please.” Joanie begged. “Please don’t.”

He didn’t hear her.

He reached out to touch him.

A searing pain tore through Joanie’s skull.

A white light exploded behind her eyes.

---

Joanie snapped awake with a gasp.

The Icelander collapsed in front of her, hitting the floor hard. His body jerked once, then went still, breath ragged, eyes unfocused.

Behind her, Mina stood trembling, gripping a fire extinguisher with both hands. The metal was dented from where she’d hit him.

Her heart leapt, filling with relief.

“We need to go, Joanie.” Mina’s voice shook. “Now.”

Joanie stared at the Icelander’s unconscious form, her heart pounding, her mind still echoing with the cold of his childhood.

Then she nodded.