Cat's Cradle

My six-year-old, Maya, has started waking up at 3 AM to sit on the living room rug. She plays Cat's Cradle with thin air, her fingers deftly passing the yarn to an invisible partner. "Good job, Sissy," she giggles, staring at the empty space opposite her. I tried to dismiss it as grief—her father died before she was born—but then I found her drawings. Always two girls. One is Maya; the other is a figure scribbled in heavy black charcoal, standing right behind her. The caption in shaky crayon reads: *"Sharing is the rule."* Yesterday, Maya spiked a fever. She grabbed my wrist, her grip bruisingly strong, and whispered, "Sissy says... when you say 'I do' to David next week... the contract is done. She gets to drive." Panicked, I tore through my late husband's old office. Hidden in a safe, I found a journal from his struggling years. The final entry, dated months before his death, read: *"The deal is struck. The Grand Duke grants the fortune. In exchange, he claims the first daughter's name and vessel. She is just the cocoon."* I heard the grandfather clock chime. I ran downstairs. The moonlight hit the sofa. Maya was there, holding up the string figure. But the shadow on the wall... it wasn't one little girl. It was two distinct silhouettes, fused at the spine, four hands weaving the yarn into a perfect, jagged noose. Maya looked up, her smile stretching too wide for her face. "Mommy, Sissy says thank you. She says 'Maya' is a perfect name for us."