The mirror reflects a stranger—stronger, sharper, eyes lit with something that isn’t just pain. My fingers trace the scar along my ribs, the one that shouldn’t exist. The studio is freezing, but sweat beads at my temples as I launch into the sequence. Left pivot, roll, leap—muscle memory screams what my brain can’t recall. This move… I didn’t learn it. It emerged last week in a dream, slick with static and the echo of laughter—hers.

A knock. Miles stands in the doorway, holding a cracked cassette. ‘They’re saying you’re a ghost,’ he says. ‘But this recording—it’s you, three months before the accident. And you’re talking about her. About Queenie.’

My breath hitches. On the tape, my voice whispers: ‘She doesn’t want us to change the game. She wants to burn it down if she can’t control it.’

Miles hands me the player. ‘Do we play it? Or do we dance it?’