“No way…” Clara’s voice trembled as she stared at the security footage, heart pounding in her chest. The woman on the screen—the one who had helped raise her child, folded her clothes, smiled in her kitchen—was a stranger. Rosa’s warmth was gone. In its place: something calculated. Chilling.
She rewound the footage again and again, desperate for clarity. But every frame left her more unsettled. Rosa’s movements were slow. Intentional. Her eyes lingered too long. Her hands paused where they shouldn’t. There was something off—something Clara couldn’t name, but it was there. And it was growing.
“My god,” Clara whispered, barely able to breathe. “What have you been doing?” The reality shattered the trust she’d built over years. It wasn’t paranoia. It wasn’t projection. It was something far more disturbing. Clara rewound again, hands trembling, needing answers. But she already knew—deep down, she had always known. “This can’t be real…”