'Find The Truth'

Iris sat at her desk, sketching the final touches for their fashion project. The room was filled with scattered fabric swatches and sketches. Avelia was sprawled on the bed, flipping through design notes.
"Finally done!" Avelia yawned, stretching her arms. "What time is it?"
Iris glanced at the clock. "It's almost three. We should sleep."
"Yeah, but I'm starving," Avelia said. "Want me to make something?"
Iris shook her head. "No, I’ll do it. You relax."
As Iris headed toward the small kitchen, she couldn't shake off the image of the girl from the library earlier that day. Her resemblance to Iris had been uncanny, but what disturbed her most was the girl's expression—haunting and sad, as though she carried secrets too heavy to bear.
Iris placed a pot on the stove, the faint hum of the burner filling the room. The air felt heavy, almost oppressive. She glanced toward the living room, where the shadows seemed to dance along the walls despite the stillness of the night.
Suddenly, there was a faint knock at the window.
Iris froze, her heart racing. "That's weird," she whispered. They lived on the third floor.
She cautiously approached the window, expecting to see nothing but darkness. Instead, there was a faint imprint, like the outline of a hand pressed against the glass from the outside. Her breath hitched.
"Iris?" Avelia called from the other room.
"Yeah?" Iris tried to keep her voice steady.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, just—" She hesitated. "Come here for a second."
Avelia walked in, rubbing her eyes. "What's up?"
Iris pointed to the window. "Do you see that?"
Avelia squinted. "What the—? How's that possible?"
Before they could process it, the imprint faded, disappearing as though it had never been there.
Avelia frowned. "Maybe we're just tired."
"Maybe," Iris agreed, though unease gnawed at her.
They returned to the living room, but Iris couldn’t let it go. "That girl in the library..." she started.
Avelia groaned. "Not this again."
"I'm serious, Avelia. She looked exactly like me. And now this weird thing at the window? Something's not right."
"You're overthinking," Avelia said dismissively. "Let's just get some sleep."
Reluctantly, Iris agreed. But as she lay in bed, sleep eluded her. Her mind replayed the events of the day—the girl, the strange handprint, the eerie silence that now filled their apartment.
Then she heard it.
A faint whisper.
It was soft, almost indistinguishable, but it was there.
"Iris..."
Her blood ran cold. She sat up, heart pounding. "Avelia?"
Avelia was fast asleep.
Iris scanned the room, but nothing seemed out of place. She was about to lie back down when she noticed something on her desk—a sketch she hadn’t drawn.
It was a figure in a long, flowing dress, standing under a broken clock.
The same broken clock from Granny Row's apartment.
How did this get here? Iris’s hands trembled as she picked up the sketch.
Beneath the drawing, written in elegant cursive, were three chilling words:
"Find the truth."
Iris's breath caught in her throat. Who had drawn this? And what truth was she supposed to find?
As the moonlight streamed through the window, casting eerie shadows across the room, Iris knew one thing for certain—this was just the beginning.