But the crack was gone from the lid. And when Melanie looked up, Pandora was standing closer. Much closer. Her eyes weren’t gray anymore. They were the same silver as the box, and they were Melanie’s eyes—her shape, her color, her flecks of gold around the pupil.

That night, Melanie dreamed she was two people. In one dream, she sat at her kitchen table, crying without tears, watching her hands turn translucent. In the other, she stood over a sleeping body—her own body—and felt the weight of a silver box in her pocket.

Pandora tilted her head. “I asked you first.”

But the box was still there. Open. And inside, nestled on the velvet, was a single gray eye.

Three dots appeared. Then:

Melanie jumped. Her roommate stood in the kitchen doorway, barefoot, holding a mug of tea she hadn’t been drinking. Pandora had moved in three weeks ago, answering a sublet ad that Melanie didn’t remember posting. She was pretty in a sharp way—dark bob, gray eyes that never blinked enough—and she had a habit of knowing things before Melanie said them.

“What did you just do?” Melanie whispered.