Mira leaned against her desk, tapping her pen, half-listening to her teacher. “I studied all night,” she muttered under her breath, even though she hadn’t opened a book.

A second later, her test filled itself in—perfect answers, flawless handwriting. No one noticed. No one ever did.

She had learned how to lie gently: about grades, talents, little things. Until yesterday.

“I wish Dad were still here,” she’d whispered in the hallway, heart aching from a photo in her pocket.

That night, the front door creaked open.

He stood there—same coat, same soft eyes—but something was wrong. He didn’t blink. His voice echoed too long.

“Hi, Mira,” he said, smiling like a memory stretched too far.

Now, curled beside her was a dragon, real and warm, while her father—not quite her father—stood silently in the hallway, watching.

She held her breath.

“I’m fine,” she whispered.

But the dragon growled low.

And her father’s eyes flickered, as if even the lie knew it wasn’t true.