The blanket smelled like dust and someone else's laundry detergent, the fibers scratchy against skin still damp from the couch. The two new Lyras pressed together beneath it, shoulder to shoulder, their violet eyes moving across the room in tandem—catching the lamp's amber glow, the scattered cushions, the faces that looked back at them like mirrors held at different angles.

"We don't have names," one of them whispered. Her voice was Lyra's voice, the same musical lilt, the same careful selection of words. "We're just Lyra. Both of us."

The room went still. Even the lamp seemed to dim, as if the light itself was holding its breath.

Lyra—the original, the first—sat on the arm of the couch, close but not crowding. Her own hand rested on the blanket's frayed edge, inches from one of the newcomers' knees. She could feel the heat of them through the fabric, the same heat she'd felt in her own skin moments ago, when the world had split open and poured two more of her into existence.

"You're not just Lyra," she said, the words coming out rougher than she meant. "You're—" She stopped. What were they? What was she, anymore?

Nova stood by the lamp, arms crossed, her shadow long and sharp across the floorboards. Her messy ponytail had come half-undone during the day, strands of silver-blonde falling across her face, and there was a streak of something that might have been grease or paint on her cheek. She uncrossed her arms slowly, the motion deliberate, like she was approaching a creature she didn't want to startle.

"We'll figure it out," she said. Her voice was steady, the voice she used when she was dragging her sisters into something new, something that scared them. "We always do."

Sera sat on the floor by the coffee table, one hand frozen on the sweating glass of water. Condensation dripped down her fingers, pooling on the scarred wood, but she didn't seem to notice. Her round glasses caught the lamp light, hiding her eyes for a moment before she tilted her head, the gentle expression on her face doing nothing to hide the tremor in her voice.

"What do you remember?" she asked. "Either of you. What's the last thing you remember?"

The two new Lyras exchanged a glance, a mirror meeting a mirror. The one on the left—the one who had spoken—pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

"The couch," she said slowly. "The warmth. And then—" She frowned, searching for the word. "A sound. Like something breaking open. And then you were all here, looking at us."

The other new Lyra nodded, her fingers plucking at the blanket's frayed edge. "I remember the light. The lamp, I think. And a voice." She looked at Lyra, the original, her violet eyes wide and uncertain. "Your voice. Saying my name."

Lyra's throat tightened. She hadn't said anyone's name. She'd been lost in the feel of the second Lyra's body against hers, the cellular itch cresting, the world dissolving into pleasure and then—

Then there had been four of them.

"That's not—" she started, then stopped. What was the point? What did the new Lyras need to know, right now, in this moment, wrapped in a thrift-store blanket on a couch that had just held four naked bodies?

Rina's bouncing legs slowed to a stop. She was perched on the edge of an armchair, her colorful crop top bright against the dim room, her earbuds hanging loose around her neck. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the two new faces, and for once she didn't have anything to say.

"You're cold," the second Lyra said from where she stood near the kitchen doorway. She'd pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, her silver-blonde hair still mussed from the couch, from the weight of Lyra's hands in it. She looked at the two new Lyras with something like recognition, like she was seeing her own first moments echoed back at her. "You're cold, and you're scared, and you don't know what happened."

The new Lyra on the left nodded, a small, jerky motion. "Is this—" She swallowed. "Is this what it was like for you?"

The second Lyra was quiet for a moment. Then she crossed the room, her bare feet padding softly on the floorboards, and crouched in front of the couch. She reached out, slow, and touched the blanket where it covered the new Lyra's knee.

"I woke up on a rooftop," she said. "The wind was cold, and there was a voice—Lyra's voice—calling my name. And I didn't know anything. Not where I was, not how I got there. Just the wind, and the voice, and the feeling that I was supposed to be somewhere."

The new Lyra stared at her. "And now?"

"Now I know where I'm supposed to be." The second Lyra's hand pressed flat against the blanket, warm through the fabric. "Here. With all of you."

The new Lyra's eyes glistened. She blinked, hard, and looked away, at the coffee table, at the sweating glass, at the crumpled piece of paper lying near the edge.

Nova followed her gaze. Her hand moved before her mind caught up, reaching across the coffee table, her fingers brushing the paper's curling edge. It was a flyer, creased and slightly damp from where it had sat under a glass of water for god knew how long. She picked it up, smoothed it against her palm, and read the words printed in bold black letters.

"FOR RENT: 4-BEDROOM, VACANT NOW."

The room shifted. The two Novas exchanged a look—the original by the lamp, the new one by the door, both of them reading the same words, both of them thinking the same thing. The two Seras leaned in, their cardigans brushing against each other, their round glasses catching the light at identical angles. The two Rinas stopped their synchronized fidgeting, their eyes going wide.

Lyra felt the flyer's weight land in the room like a stone dropped into still water.

"We can't stay here," the second Nova said. She was leaning against the doorframe, her denim jacket draped over her shoulders, her voice carrying the same confident edge as the original's but with something harder underneath. "Not with ten of us. Not with—" She gestured at the two new Lyras, at the blanket, at the couch. "Not with the possibility that there could be more."

The word hung in the air. More.

Lyra felt the hollow ache in her chest pulse, a dull throb that had been there since the split, since she'd felt herself pour into two new bodies and leave something behind. She pressed her hand against her sternum, felt the steady beat of her heart, and wondered how many more times she could do this before there was nothing left of her to give.

"We don't even know if it's possible," she said, but the words sounded weak even to her.

"You've done it three times," the new Nova said. "Three times, Lyra. And each time it's happened, it's been—" She stopped, searching for the word. "Easier. Faster. The first time, you were on a rooftop, and you didn't know what was happening. The second time, you were in this apartment, and you knew exactly what was happening. And tonight—" She looked at the two new Lyras, at the second Lyra, at the original. "Tonight, you did it together. On purpose."

Lyra opened her mouth to deny it, but the words wouldn't come. Because it was true. She had wanted the second Lyra. She had wanted her with a hunger that had nothing to do with logic or caution or the hollow ache that she knew would follow. And when they'd come together, when the cellular itch had crested and broken, she hadn't thought about consequences. She hadn't thought about anything except the feeling of being whole for the first time since the rooftop.

"So what do we do?" the original Sera asked. She was still on the floor, her hand still frozen on the glass, but her voice was steady, the voice she used when she was asking the deep questions, the ones that mattered. "Where do we go?"

The second Nova held up the flyer. The paper curled at the edges, the ink slightly smeared, but the words were clear. "Four bedrooms. Vacant now. We could—" She looked around the room, at the ten of them, at the faces that were all the same and all different. "We could build something. A real home. Somewhere big enough for all of us."

"But that costs money," the new Rina said. Her voice was higher than the original's, a little breathless, like she was still catching up to the moment. "And we barely make enough at the taco cart and the warehouse and the library to—"

"We make enough," the original Nova interrupted. She'd uncrossed her arms completely now, her hands hanging loose at her sides, her posture shifting from defensive to something like resolve. "We make enough, and we can make more. There are ten of us now. Ten of us working, ten of us saving. We can do this."

"Ten of us," the new Lyra on the right repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. She looked down at her hands, at the pale skin and the fine silver-blonde hairs catching the lamplight, and Lyra saw her own uncertainty reflected back at her. "We're ten people now. And we don't even have names."

The room fell silent again. The lamp buzzed softly. Somewhere outside, a car passed, its headlights sweeping across the window before fading into the dark.

Lyra looked at the two new Lyras, huddled together under the blanket, their violet eyes wide and lost. She looked at the second Lyra, who was still crouched in front of them, her hand still pressing warmth through the fabric. She looked at the two Novas, the two Seras, the two Rinas, all of them caught in the same moment, all of them waiting for someone to say something that would make sense of it all.

She opened her mouth to answer the whisper—to give them something, a name, a comfort, a promise that they would figure it out, that they weren't alone, that the gap inside them would close with time and care and the presence of people who loved them—

But before a word left her lips, the second Nova reached across the coffee table. Her fingers brushed the crumpled flyer, the paper's edge curling under her touch, and the motion was small, almost accidental, but it broke the spell.

The two new Lyras' eyes shifted, following her hand. The original Lyra's words died in her throat.

The question of names hung unresolved in the air, a thread waiting to be pulled. But the family's eyes were already following the second Nova's fingers, already reading the words on the flyer, already sensing that the next words spoken would not be about who they were, but where they would go.