The whisper left her lips like a secret carried on air.
For a heartbeat, there was silence—so heavy, she could hear her own pulse pounding in her ears.
Then, the mirror answered.
It wasn't with words. It was a sound—a soft vibration that trembled through the air and into her bones. The cameras surrounding the room flickered once, then twice, before their red recording lights dimmed to black.
Rhea's breath hitched. She stood motionless, the faint hum of the mirror filling the space like an invisible current. It wasn't reflecting her anymore—it was breathing.
A mist began forming inside the glass. Slowly, shapes appeared—blurry at first, then clearer. Faces. Dozens of them. Some pressed against the other side of the glass, eyes wide and hollow, as if begging to be seen. Others lingered in the background, whispering soundlessly, their mouths moving in silent rhythm.
Rhea forced herself closer. Her reflection emerged again, faint and pale. But something was wrong—her eyes in the reflection were not moving in sync with her own.
She blinked once. The reflection didn't.
She tilted her head. It smiled.
Her stomach twisted. She took one slow step backward, her heel bumping against the metal leg of the camera tripod.
And then—
Knock.
A single tap from inside the glass.
Rhea froze.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
This time, louder. Faster. Urgent.
"Rhea?" Aarav's voice called faintly from beyond the door. "You still there?"
She turned toward the door, her throat dry. "Aarav—"
Before she could finish, the lights went out.
Darkness swallowed the room whole. Only the mirror remained faintly lit from within, glowing with a strange, cold luminescence. The knocking turned into pounding, furious and desperate—as if something wanted out.
She stumbled toward the door, fumbling for the handle, but when she turned it—
It didn't move.
"Aarav!" she shouted. "It's locked!"
No answer. Only muffled sounds, distant, fading.
Then came the whisper again—closer this time, right beside her ear.
> "You opened it."
Her breath turned to mist. The air grew colder. Her reflection moved again—slowly stepping toward her from inside the mirror. Each footstep it took echoed like a drop of water falling into an endless well.
> "You heard us," the reflection whispered. "Now we hear you."
The glass rippled, light bending like water.
Before Rhea could react, the mirror pulled her in.
---
When her eyes opened again, she was lying on a cold, marble floor.
Everything was still. Silent.
She pushed herself up slowly. Around her stretched a long corridor—its walls, ceiling, even the ground—made entirely of mirrors. The light here wasn't natural; it came from somewhere inside the reflections themselves, glowing faintly blue and silver.
Her reflection appeared on every surface, countless versions of herself staring back—each one slightly delayed, slightly distorted. Some smiled when she didn't. Some turned their heads when she stayed still.
Her pulse quickened.
She took a cautious step forward. The sound echoed endlessly, as if traveling through miles of glass.
"Clara?" she called out, her voice trembling. "If you can hear me—"
A whisper cut her off.
It wasn't Clara's.
It was the sound of many voices at once, layered and overlapping like wind through broken glass.
> "We remember you…"
"The one who listens…"
"The one who opened the door…"
Rhea turned in circles, trying to find the source, but the voices came from everywhere.
From the mirrors. From beneath her feet. From inside her own reflection.
And then she saw them.
Figures moving through the mirrors—not reflections, but shadows behind the glass. A woman brushing her hair, her movements slow and endless. A child pressing his small palm against the surface, eyes wide with hope. A man sitting still, head bowed, lips moving in silent prayer.
They weren't alive. They weren't dead. They were trapped—caught between memory and erasure.
Rhea's throat tightened. "You're the forgotten ones," she whispered. "The stories that were never told."
The corridor flickered. The mirrors began to hum. The voices grew louder.
At the very end of the hallway, one mirror shone brighter than the rest—its frame cracked, its surface pulsing like a heartbeat.
Rhea felt it before she saw it: the pull, the same magnetic force she had felt back in the museum.
Drawn forward, she stepped closer, her reflection merging with the shimmer of blue light.
On the surface of the mirror, words began to appear, written in condensation—slowly, letter by letter:
"Welcome back."
Rhea's hands trembled. She raised one, pressing her fingertips gently against the words. The glass felt alive—warm and cold at the same time.
Behind the reflection, something moved.
Not a person. Not a ghost.
A shape—tall, thin, bending and unbending like smoke. Its face was blank, its movements inhuman.
Her reflection smiled again.
> "It's waiting," whispered the voices.
"The Collector remembers your name."
The blue light pulsed once more, swallowing everything in brilliance—
and Rhea was gone.
---
To be continued…
---