ASTERWICK 08 - Mira (Patreon)

10.16.26 – 5:00 a.m.

Mira Holloway’s House – East Asterwick

Mira Holloway - Previous: 5’7” 132 lbs | Current: 5’8” 145 lbs

Change since last recorded: +1”, +13 lbs

At five in the morning, Mira stood barefoot beside the bathroom doorframe and checked the pencil mark she had made the night before. No change. She checked again anyway, flattening her hair and pressing both heels to the baseboard. Five foot eight. The same as yesterday. One inch taller than she had been on Monday.

Relief came first, which was ridiculous. Five foot eight was still impossible. So were the thirteen pounds she had added since Monday. But none of it had arrived in one go. Her height had increased in small gains over four days. Her weight had followed in uneven jumps, leaving new muscle behind each time her body surged and settled.

She opened the notebook on the sink. DATE. TIME. HEIGHT. WEIGHT. CLOTHING. APPETITE. STRENGTH. OTHER. The headings ran down every page in her block handwriting. Monday’s entries were crowded with question marks. Tuesday had three measurements before breakfast. By Thursday, she had stopped moving the scale to different parts of the floor.

Mira stepped onto it once. One hundred forty-five pounds. Same as yesterday evening. She wrote STABLE SINCE 8:40 P.M., then added SLEPT SIX HOURS and HUNGRY. Her hand stayed steady. This was not acceptance. Acceptance sounded permanent. This was management.

She had developed rules for herself. Keep food nearby. Test chairs before dropping into them. Turn glass knobs with two fingers. Leave space between her and anything fragile when a surge started. She had learned to feel one coming: pressure low in her stomach, heat climbing her back, the sense that her clothes had taken a breath before she did. On Monday, each sign had sent her pulse into a sprint. Now she was at peace with the changes.

That should have scared her more. The cabin was still unexplainable. Her body was still changing without permission. She should have been calling doctors, police, anyone with a badge or a laboratory. Instead, part of her was pleased the number had held overnight. Part of her liked knowing the heavy cast-iron skillet no longer became too much at the wrist. Fear remained, but it had stopped running the room.

Mira did not know what had made her. Monday’s version of her had treated seven new pounds like an emergency. This morning’s version had meal-prepped for the next thirteen and built rules around the next surge. She was not simply getting used to the changes. She was getting better at living inside them. That distinction bothered her. Was she coping, or was the thing from the woods changing more than muscle? She watched her reflection cap the pen and wondered whether becoming someone new would feel dramatic. Maybe it felt like choosing a response before fear chose one for you.

June’s changes were harder to plan around. June surged when she ran, when she strained, when someone needed help. For seconds she became taller and stronger, then snapped back and kept a fraction of what had happened. Mira had no dramatic return. Her body climbed, settled, and stayed. June feared the next surge. Mira feared there might not need to be one.

Her mother had known enough to write DO NOT FOLLOW PAST THE THIRD MARKER and hide the map in a kitchen drawer. Mira pictured the three cedar posts again: crescent, hand, open eye. The hand had seemed curled on the way back. The eye had held rain in its carved pupil. At the time she had treated the warning as another sealed box her mother had left behind. Now the words felt specific. Personal. Not stay out of the woods. Not avoid the cabin. Do not go past the third marker.

She and June had crossed that line together, yet the woods had not given them the same consequence. Mira needed to know why. She needed to learn what her mother had seen and whether the trail markers were warnings, boundaries, or instructions. Until then, she would keep measuring, keep eating, keep working, and refuse to let every morning become a crisis.

The mirror showed the result of four bad days. Her face was still hers. The rest had shifted by degrees: shoulders a little wider after Monday, arms firmer after the coffee bags, waist thicker with muscle after each surge, thighs gaining enough size that she had started avoiding the narrow kitchen chairs. No single change had remade her. Together, they were becoming hard to hide.

Mira turned sideways and pulled her sleep shirt flat. Grant had looked twice on Wednesday, when another half inch had moved her eyes closer to his. Yesterday, he had noticed her tugging at sleeves that no longer settled below her wrists. He had not asked either time. That made going to work easier. It also made lying to him harder.

Her first pair of jeans made it to mid-thigh and quit, no amount of jumping was going to get them higher. The second pair went on, but the button and buttonhole remained separated by an inch, likely thanks to her butt. Mira stood in front of the closet wearing a bra that dug into her back and barely contained her breasts. She considered calling in sick. Then she pictured Grant opening alone, handling the morning rush, and sending her a message that said only: You alive? No question mark. It seemed worse than hiding.

She found black stretch pants at the bottom of a donation box, left over from her mother’s short-lived yoga phase. They fit through the waist and barely survived her thighs. The Harbor Coffee shirt was not happening. Mira put it on, watched the sleeves climb her arms, and took it off before a seam made the decision for her. She settled for a plain red long-sleeve shirt beneath her apron. Close enough to uniform. Loose enough to breathe.

The sleeves ended above her wrists. She stared at them, then rolled them to her elbows on purpose. Her arms filled the sleeves, and they visibly stretched with the bunching of her biceps. She ate four eggs, two pieces of toast, and the leftover rice June had abandoned in her refrigerator. The hunger eased from urgent to merely rude. She added APPETITE: HIGH to the notebook, packed two protein bars, and left the house at 5:42.

The Volvo needed a new arrangement. Seat back one click. Steering wheel up. Mirror adjusted. Her knees still sat closer to the dash than she liked, but nothing caught and nothing broke. She drove downtown in light rain, obeyed every speed limit, and reached Harbor Coffee with six minutes to spare. She counted that as a victory.

Grant was unlocking the front door when she crossed Mill Street. He turned at the sound of her boots. His gaze met her face, dropped to the rolled sleeves, moved once over the new set of her shoulders, and returned to her face. It took less than a second. Mira still felt every part of it.

“New uniform?” he asked. “Laundry dispute.” “Who won?” “The negotiations remain hostile.” Grant held the door open. Mira passed close enough to smell rain on his jacket and coffee on his breath. He did not ask why she looked taller. He did not ask whether she had started lifting weights sometime between Tuesday and Thursday. He only said, “I put the large apron on your hook.”

Mira stopped just inside. “Why?” Grant locked the door behind them. “Because the medium one looked uncomfortable yesterday.” His tone stayed casual. He crossed to the lights and brought the shop awake in warm sections. “If you hate it, I can put the old one back.”

That was what Grant did. He noticed. Then he left room around the thing he had noticed. Most people filled silence because it made them nervous. Grant treated silence like it belonged to the other person.

Mira took the large apron from the hook. It went around her waist without biting. Relief came first. Embarrassment followed. Then, inconveniently, gratitude. “Thanks,” she said. Grant gave her one nod and started the espresso machine. No speech. No careful concern. No attempt to make her explain her own body before sunrise.

Grant slid a ceramic mug toward her. “Test batch.” Mira took a sip. Maple, cardamom, too much confidence. “It tastes like fall rented a billboard.” “That sounds positive.” “It was not meant that way.” He reached for the mug, and their fingers touched around the handle. Neither moved for half a second. Then Mira let go too quickly and nearly sent the spoon beside it onto the floor.

Grant caught the spoon. “Still fine?” “Fine is hungry.” “Fine ate two breakfast sandwiches yesterday.” “Fine has a private life.” Grant opened the pastry case, put a blueberry scone on a plate, and left it beside her without charging it to the waste sheet. Mira frowned at him. “That is theft.” “Owner’s privilege.” “Corruption starts small.” “Eat the evidence.”

The morning rush arrived at six-thirty and gave her no time to think. Orders stacked up. Milk hissed. The grinder jammed once and surrendered when Mira struck the side panel with the heel of her hand. She moved cups, wiped counters, carried two full bus tubs at once, and stopped reaching for help before she needed it. Her body knew how much force to use most of the time now. When it did not, she adjusted.

At 7:18, she crushed a paper cup while fitting the lid. At 7:19, she threw it away and tried again. No panic. No staring at her hand. Just less pressure the next time. That was the new rule: correct, continue, document later.

The next lid clicked into place cleanly. Grant appeared at her shoulder with another cup. “Again.” Mira glanced toward the customers. “Are we training me to defeat paper products?” “We are establishing dominance.” She fitted the second lid. Then a third. Grant watched her hands, not her arms. “Better,” he said. “You’re using your fingertips now.” “I know how cups work.” “The first cup disagreed.”

Mira lowered her voice. “You’re being strange about this.” “I’m being normal very carefully.” “That is stranger.” Grant stacked the practice cups and carried them toward the register. “Then we agree I’m doing excellent work.” She watched him go. He had given her a solution without naming the problem. It should have made her feel exposed. Instead, it made the tight place under her ribs ease.

Ten minutes later, when a box of oat milk needed to go to the top shelf, Grant moved the step stool into place without comment. Mira used it even though she no longer needed the extra height. He let her, and neither of them acknowledged what that small performance was protecting.

A few minutes later, they reached for the same syrup bottle. Grant stopped. Mira stopped. His hand hovered over hers. “You take it,” he said. “Afraid I’ll win?” “Afraid we’ll lose the bottle.” She gave him a flat look, then lifted it with two fingers. “See? Delicate.” “Terrifyingly so.” He smiled and moved to the register before she could answer.

By nine, the line had thinned to one student writing a paper in the corner and an older man reading the same page of the newspaper for twenty minutes. Mira leaned against the counter and tore open her second protein bar. Grant stood beside the sink, drying his hands on a towel.

Grant set a glass of water beside her protein bar. “You’ve had three coffees and no water.” “You count my drinks now?” “Only the ones I provide for free.” Mira drank half the glass. He looked pleased with himself, which made her want to argue. The problem was that the water helped. “Don’t make that face,” she said. “What face?” “The one where you’re right quietly.” “It’s my best face.” “Debatable.”

For a moment they stood on opposite sides of the narrow counter, both pretending to check the room. The student typed. The old man turned his newspaper page at last. Grant tapped one finger against the sink. Mira recognized the movement. He did it when he had something to say and was deciding how to say it.

“I’m not going to ask,” he said. Mira looked up. “That sounds exactly like asking.” “It’s the opposite.” He folded the towel once and set it down. “You’ve been different all week. You know that. I know that. If you want to tell me, I’ll listen. If you don’t, I’ll keep adjusting apron inventory and minding my business.”

The truth rose to the back of her throat. Cabin. Growth. June. The fifty-pound bag. The notebook on her nightstand. She wanted to hand all of it to him and watch his face remain steady. That was the dangerous part. Not that he might think she was lying. That he might believe her, step closer, and become one more person the woods could reach—or change.

“Something happened,” she said. “I’m not ready to explain it.” Grant’s jaw tightened once. Not anger. Restraint. “Are you in danger?” “I don’t know.” It was the most honest answer she had given anyone except June. “Are you sick?” “I don’t think so.” “Do you need time off?” “No.” “Do you need better shirts?”

Mira looked down at the red sleeves stressing around her biceps and ending halfway up her forearms. “Probably.” “I can order those.” “You order emergency employee shirts?” “I own a coffee shop in a college town. I order for disasters I haven’t met yet.” She laughed before she meant to. Grant smiled, and the space between them changed.

Mira broke a protein bar in half and stuffed one piece into her mouth. Grant chose that moment to leave the sink and come around the counter. He dried his palms on the towel, set it down, picked it up again, and folded it. Then he unfolded it. “So,” he said. “I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee sometime.” Mira stopped chewing. Her eyes moved from Grant to the espresso machine behind him, then to the grinders, the menu board, the stacked cups, and the burlap bags of beans visible through the storage-room door. She looked back at him with half a protein bar still packed into one cheek.

Grant followed her gaze. “Right. We already do coffee.” Color climbed into his face. “That was a terrible opening.” Mira made a small sound around the protein bar that might have been agreement. “Dinner,” he said quickly. “I meant dinner. There’s that nice place on Alder. The one with actual plates and cloth napkins. I’d like to take you there. On a date.” Mira chewed, swallowed, and looked at him. He had noticed the changes. He was worried. He was giving her control anyway. She could not promise him normal, but dinner felt possible.

“Saturday,” she said. “After six.” Grant’s smile came slowly. “I can work with that.” The front door opened and the bell rang. Mira straightened, set the wrapper aside, and reached for a clean cup. Her sleeve tightened around her arm. Her shoes pinched. Her whole body still felt like a problem being written without her permission. But dinner was a choice she had made for herself. When she faced the next customer, she was smiling.