I woke up this morning to Maria’s face inches from mine like she was auditioning to be the ghost in my next dream sequence.

“What do you want for breakfast?” she whispered like a serial killer in a glitter crop top.

I screamed. She laughed. Balance was restored.

We shuffled to the kitchen, still wrapped in our sleep and leftover eyeliner. The sunlight through the window made the whole house look like a dream you’d want to keep.

We made eggs like we were curing a hangover we hadn’t fully earned, and Maria—still wearing my hoodie—started spilling.

“So... the boys last night? Cute. Flirty. But let’s be real... no one wants me.”

I stopped mid-toast. Dropped the knife.

“Shut the hell up,” I said. And I meant it. Not in a joking way. In a 'let me drop the gospel' way.

I turned to her and rattled off the truth like it was scripture. “You’re brilliant, Maria. You’ve survived more than most people could handle and still walk into rooms like you own the damn place. You’re gorgeous. Your brain is terrifying—in the hottest way—and that scares weak men. That’s not your fault. That’s their expiration date.”

She rolled her eyes. I didn’t let her off the hook.

I walked her to the mirror and pulled her hair up. “Look at this. Look at this jawline. Look at this goddess.”

I poked her side. “All this and so much more up here,” I said, pointing at her temple. “I’m the one who’s jealous. And the luckiest bitch alive to have you as my sister from another mister.”

Maria rolled her eyes again, this time with peak sarcasm. “Ugh, I hate you. I love you. Whatever.”

We laughed, sipping our coffee like witches casually waiting for the moon to call.

Then Maria stopped mid-sip. “Wait… the fudge were you saying about your dreams yesterday?”

I hesitated. I gave her a little. She asked for more.

Eventually, I caved. Told her about the dog. The deaths. The weirdness.

She laughed. Thought I was joking. Until I pulled up the articles. One by one. Names. Photos. Timelines. Too real to be coincidence.

Her smile faded. Brows pulled together like she was trying to knit logic out of something supernatural.

Then she noticed it. The ring.

“What is that?” she asked. I turned my hand slowly. Black stone. Cool to the touch. Still snug.

“It’s labradorite,” I said. “It was in a package of housewarming gifts. No return address. Just… there.”

Maria blinked. “You… just wear it?”

I looked at it for a moment. Felt that pull. That familiar hum.

“It doesn’t matter where it came from,” I said calmly. And I meant it. For once.

Maria reached out. “Can I try it on?”

I nodded. Held her hand. Slid the ring onto her finger.

CRASH.

Two wine glasses fell from the counter. No one touched them.

Maria yelped. I yanked the ring off her hand so fast we both gasped.

Slid it back onto my own. Felt the air settle.

We both crouched to clean up. Silence for a moment.

Then she grinned. “You’re fucking much more interesting now. Beautiful and weird.”

We laughed. Got up. Shook it off.