“Youmoves,” he said again, and this time it wasn’t a command or a code.

In the dream, a child’s voice echoed: “Youmoves.” He woke at 3:33 AM. The cat was staring at the front door. Not hissing. Just... waiting.

That night, he dreamed of the broken mirrors.

The mirrors reflected not his face, but every version of himself he’d buried: the painter, the sailor, the person who laughed without checking first.