A/N: It's been a while. The last year has been extremely hard and, for a long time, I lost the motivation to write. I received some lovely reviews over the last couple of months that inspired me to keep writing. I'm so touched by those of you who enjoy this story and take the time to review.

I might stop updating the story here since I don't think many people read it, but I will continue Ao3 updates!

Just a quick trigger warning that the following chapter contains some heavy gas lighting. Definitely strong Hannibal vibes ahead.

Pale morning light cast a red haze behind my closed eyes. Blearily, I felt for the parchment—it was still there, resting beneath my fingertips, tied to my wrist just as I'd left it. I opened my eyes, suddenly awake. It was shocking to see it there; I'd been so certain it would vanish as the sun rose. I hugged it to my chest, my heart racing. One thought dominated all others: My father was potentially alive. And another, more frightening, idea lingered in the shadow of that: I didn't know what was real.

It wasn't something I could ask of Irene or even Toby. Because if they didn't see what I did…

I was deeply afraid that my hold on reality was tenuous at best. How could a letter from my dead father come through my vanity mirror? How could that be true when everything from ten years ago, and the last week, was illusion? My mind was driving itself into confusing circles, struggling to hold two wildly different outcomes—either what I'd been told for the last decade wasn't true, or my delusions were plaguing me in new, horrific ways. What could I possibly cling to for purchase when all options were frightening? My breathing turned shallow and quick.

With trembling fingers, I opened the letter again. The black ink was dark against the pale paper—the message was still there. 'Love, Dad' made my eyes sting and I sat up, glancing at the vanity mirror, half wondering if I would see him there. But the surface was still, reflecting my tousled hair and tired, half-wild eyes.

Distantly, I heard the sound of pans clanking—Irene was up and making breakfast. It was so strikingly mundane that it pulled me out of my sudden spiral. I tried to be practical. Calm. I couldn't go downstairs with the letter tied to my wrist, but I also refused to let it out of my sight. So, I got up and untied the ribbon, got dressed, and put the letter beneath my shirt and the waistband of my jeans. It comforted me to feel it against my skin. But it was also the ever-present reminder of the unreliability of my own mind.

I stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself resolutely. I couldn't go down there and fall to pieces. My fingers reached out tentatively to touch the glass, but I pulled them back at the last second. Lifting my chin slightly, I crossed the room and opened the door. It was as if someone else was touching the handle, as if someone else was walking downstairs. I was a ghost haunting the house—there and not there.

I took a deep breath.

Irene smiled as I walked in, but it slowly dimmed. "Sarah? Are you all right? You look so pale." She walked over, touching my forehead as if I might have a fever. She frowned, a mother's concern.

"I woke up not feeling well, that's all." I tried to give a convincing smile.

"Did you call out of work?"

Work. Shit. I had forgotten to text my boss yesterday about the storm, the tree. I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I said I'd be in late." Why was I lying? I sat down and pulled out my phone to send a text.

Irene put a plate of eggs and toast in front of me. The idea of food made my stomach turn, but I tried to eat in order to soothe her.

Outside, I could hear the loud buzzing of a saw.

Irene looked towards the window as she poured coffee. "The neighbors are helping move the tree. The drive should be clear soon."

Relief coursed through me, more potent than the cup of steaming black coffee on the table. I wanted to be out of this house. I ate the eggs in detached silence, not really tasting them. After a few minutes, I pretended to be shocked by the time.

"I should grab my things and head out." I stood and the chair legs made a harsh sound against the tile. "Thank you for everything." I hugged her and when I pulled back she smiled at me sadly.

"Take care of yourself, Sarah." She tucked my hair behind my ear. "Text me, okay?"

I nodded, forced a smile, and headed back upstairs to get my things. I hadn't brought much, so packing was a quick affair. I was only half-present, shoving things in my bag as too many thoughts fought for my attention.

As I hurried out the door, I realized I hadn't said goodbye to Toby. I glanced behind me before pulling out my phone and texting him. Sorry I had to leave so early—I have work. Try to stay out of trouble, okay?

I threw my bag in the passenger seat and when I finally closed the door, I took a deep breath and rested my forehead on the steering wheel. Tears threatened to fall, but I couldn't indulge in that kind of release. There simply wasn't time. And I was afraid of what would happen if I allowed myself to start. I turned the car on. As a drove, clouds rolled in and it started to gently rain. I didn't know exactly where I was going. I had started vaguely towards the university, but I was no longer going there.

I didn't want to go back to my apartment. And I couldn't return to Irene. Part of me wanted to drive out into the middle of nowhere and scream until I felt empty.

I suddenly jerked the wheel, cutting someone off in order to take an exit. The car behind me blared their horn. My heart raced—less because of my driving and more due to my impulsive choice of destination. Dr. Sharpe could tell me if the letter was real. I needed him to tell me.

The rest of the drive was a blur—I parked, I walked to his office in the rain, I entered his waiting room, and knocked on the door. I hadn't stopped to wonder if perhaps he was with a patient or if he would be here at all. But I hardly had time to consider it before he opened the door.

"Sarah?" If he was surprised, he didn't show it. Instead, he seemed to take me in—my wide eyes, my rain-soaked hair. We were a study in opposites—my disarray to his impeccable composure.

"Are you busy?" It seemed polite to ask—some grasp at normalcy—but I didn't sound like myself.

"Not at all. Please, come in." He stood back and gestured to the room beyond.

I hurried in and didn't sit. He barely had the chance to shut the door before I pulled the letter from the waistband of my jeans. I held it out to him, my hand shaking slightly. He crossed the room slowly and took it.

"What's this?" He was calm, patient.

I ran my hands through my wet hair. "I….can you please read it?"

His expression was unrevealing, but he opened the letter.

"I think it's a letter from my father. I received it last night." My heart fluttered and my face flushed. I felt almost feverish.

"Sarah…"

"Please. Please tell me you see it."

There was a pause and then, "Sarah there's nothing here. It's blank."

"No. Please don't lie to me." I grasped my head. My breathing was erratic and I choked out a sob. Everything that I refused to indulge in earlier came flooding to the surface.

He set the letter down and came close. "Sarah, listen to me. You're having a panic attack."

I couldn't look at him—couldn't breathe. I felt faint.

He grasped my shoulders. "Sarah." His voice was gentle, but firm. Familiar…

I shook my head as I cried. "What's happening to me?" I was trembling, crumbling like a building lost to time. "He's alive! I saw him!"

"You're having an episode, Sarah. It will pass."

"My dad…" My grief was too big for me to hold—I had given it an inch and it had consumed me. "It happened. I held the letter in my hand! Am I going to lose him all over again?" I closed my eyes tight, shutting out the room. Shutting out everything but the memory of my father's face in the mirror.

Dr. Sharpe's hand was against my forehead, as if he was checking my temperature. Words, images, and half-conceived yearnings volleyed for attention. I couldn't take it. The depth of my terror was a yawning pit.

"Tell me what happened." He looked at me intently.

My eyes flitted between his. "They appeared in my mirror. They told me I was in danger." It was hard to speak. "That I needed to be careful."

"They?"

"Hoggle. My dad." I covered my eyes with my hands, on the verge of screaming.

"You were having a hallucination, Sarah. Perhaps you wanted to see them. Your subconscious knows you are a danger to yourself."

I couldn't accept it. I wouldn't. I let my arms fall, my hands balling into fists. "But the letter! It's right there on the paper!" I was yelling at him, my fear shifting suddenly to anger. "You have to see it!"

"Sarah, nothing is there. It's nothing but a blank piece of paper." His voice was soft, controlled.

The pain was worse than I could have imagined. The all-consuming loss. The stunning realization that my mind would betray me in such horrifying ways. I battled against the truth like a feral creature. "No!" I banged my fists against his chest. "If I can't believe this. If I can't hold something in my hand and know it's real…what do I have left?"

He grabbed my wrists. "Look at me, Sarah. Let me help you know what's real, hm?"

I was broken—like a shattered cup when the shards are too small to ever put them back together again.

"Sarah." He called me back to him—my one flimsy tether to this world.

I looked up into his eyes. He was blurry in my tear-soaked vision.

"He's gone. You are going through a difficult time. You are grieving."

"I saw him," my voice was softer, almost pleading—begging for it to be true. "I saw him in my mirror." The absurdity of it being said aloud only made my chest constrict more. "He spoke to me. He sent the letter." My voice broke.

"What did the letter say?" He was so close and his voice was so gentle.

"He told me he was alive. That he was sorry he didn't believe me. That I shouldn't go looking for him." Fresh tears welled up in my eyes. I looked anywhere but at him. "He's there. It meant that everything was real and he was trapped."

He considered me for a moment. "Are you so surprised that you contrived a fantasy in which you could rescue him like you did your brother?"

His logic hit me with the force of a blow. "That's not fair." Old echoes of things that had never been. "He might need me." My voice was so small in the quietness of the room.

"You have to let him go, Sarah. You cannot always rescue everyone."

"You don't understand." I wanted to be angry, but I was too sad.

"What don't I understand? Tell me."

My heart ached.

"No more secrets, Sarah. Not here."

I closed my eyes, resigned. "I wished for him to be taken." The breath left my lungs at the admission. "The letter…it was my fault." I crumbled to the floor and he sank down slowly with me, still holding my arms.

"You blame yourself? You think a wish has so much power?" He cocked his head to the side.

In the face of uncertainty, we seek control. But I'd never felt less sovereignty over my mind, or my life, than I did at this moment. "I haven't wished for anything since," I whispered. "It was the first wish I'd made since I was fifteen."

"Sarah, it only has as much power as you give it. You don't have to let it lord over you."

I was quiet for a moment. I had been so afraid…and what good had that done me? I hated my own fear. I hated the way my mind was ripping itself to pieces.

"But he disappeared—died—after I made that horrible wish." I looked down at the perfectly pressed pants of his suit.

"Terrible coincidences sometimes happen, but you cannot let that rule your life. Make a wish, Sarah," he said gently. "Free yourself from this burden."

"I can't." I sobbed.

"You can. You simply have to choose to. Are you going to be afraid for the rest of your days?"

Perhaps it was just another way to try to control what was happening, perhaps it was the grief or the utter loss of myself, or the urge to simply prove him wrong, but it was then that every pent-up wish poured out of me. "I wish…"

His hands constricted around my upper arms.

My lips trembled around the word and the forbidden shape of it. If he hadn't been so close he might not have heard it.

"I wish it were real."

The room seemed suddenly heavier, like the weight before a storm. "I wish I could see my dad again. I wish…" Wishes tumbled from my mouth and I couldn't stop. I wished for my dad and I wished for magic. I wished that I'd been a better sister to Toby, and I wished that I'd never been plagued with these hallucinations. I wished for sad things and happy things and mundane things. I was breathless by the end, and I sagged against him as if sapped of energy. My head bowed between us.

He was silent. The room was still. With every passing moment my breathing began to return to normal.

He slowly stood, leaving me on the floor. "There, now." I watched his black shoes as he walked away.

I felt raw and naked in the wake of my confessions. It was as if every dark thought, every word, had been ripped from me. He shuffled papers at his desk, seeming to give me privacy now that the initial panic had passed. I was grateful.

My heavy heart wanted me to stay on the floor forever. But I took deep breaths and got, somewhat unsteadily, to my feet. It was strange, the anti-climactic nature of it. I'd made wishes, so many wishes, and nothing had happened. It was my own fear—just as he'd said. If I weren't so fatigued, I might have felt foolish.

To bring myself back into my body, I started to notice my surroundings. It was the trick he'd taught me last time—to engage my senses and ground myself. The air was warm though the customary fire was absent, I studied the leather book spines on the shelves, perceived the eerie silence of the room…

It was then that I noticed the darkness of his office. My brow furrowed. Had I been here so long? Had I lost time? I looked to the window and stilled. My lips parted in confusion and disbelief. I crossed the room and stared out not onto a busy Boston street, but an intricate maze, its pale stone illuminated by the light of a full moon—a ghostly mirror of what I'd seen from my bedroom window all those years ago.

The labyrinth. Horrible and strange, its serpentine corridors stretching for miles.

"Dr. Sharpe…" My tired heart started pounding again.

"I'm so proud of you, Sarah." Only, the voice didn't belong to Dr. Sharpe.

Before I could turn, he was behind me, his long, pale fingers on my shoulders, his lips at my ear. "What's said is said."