Elena didn't eat breakfast.
she was with a alot of thoughts and wandering about it
Didn't bother brushing her hair.
She moved through Rosehill Manor like someone sleepwalking—eyes wide, thoughts tangled, one hand still clutching the letter like it might crumble if she let go.
Her grandmother's words kept echoing:
"Julian Blackthorne is not a man of this world…""Never let the mirror see you bleed."
What did that mean?
Was she hallucinating? Losing her mind?
Or had her entire life until this moment been a carefully constructed lie?
The library was dark when she entered, blinds pulled, dust clinging to the air like fog. She remembered her grandmother always keeping it locked. As a child, she wasn't allowed in. Something about "delicate knowledge," Eleanor had said once with a rare, haunted look in her eyes.
Elena moved straight to the shelf lined with leather-bound books and journals. Her fingers hovered until one spine, frayed at the edges and marked with a faded gold "E.H.", caught her eye.
Eleanor Harper.
She pulled it down and opened it.
June 3rd, 1968Julian's presence lingers. I still see him sometimes in the glass. The vow is unraveling again.
Elena's breath caught.
She flipped the pages.
It was her again—her face, but not her time. The cycle repeats. The Mirror chooses when it wants her back.She never remembers him at first. But he does. Always.
The diary trembled in her hands.
Always.
A creak sounded behind her.
Elena whipped around. No one.
She was about to turn back when something caught her eye—on the far wall of the library.
A door.
Small. Narrow. Made of the same dark wood as the panels.
Except…
She had never seen it before.
It wasn't there last night.
Or the day before that.
And yet—it looked old. As if it had always been part of the house.
She approached slowly, blood roaring in her ears.
No handle. Just a keyhole. An old, iron design.
She touched it.
The metal felt warm.
Elena pulled back sharply.
Behind her, the mirror in the hallway let out a low, shuddering hum—as if it was watching her.
She pressed her hand to the keyhole again, heart racing.
The diary slipped from her grasp and fell open on the floor.
Only when the key finds the bride… will the truth reveal itself.
And the mirror will begin to bleed.
Elena sat cross-legged on the floor of the library, the diary open beside her, the silence pressing in like a second skin.
"Only when the key finds the bride…"
Bride. The word felt too deliberate. Too exact.
Was she the bride?
Was Julian… her groom?
She almost laughed at the absurdity of it—if not for the way her skin still prickled with the echo of that door. A door that shouldn't exist. A keyhole that pulsed beneath her touch.
And a name—Julian Blackthorne—that carried weight like memory she didn't ask for.
She stood slowly, dusted off her jeans, and went straight to the storage chest in her grandmother's bedroom. One she hadn't dared open before.
It was carved with roses and locked with a strange latch—not one that needed a key, but a twist of pressure and patience.
She turned it.Once.Twice.
Click.
The chest opened with a slow groan.
Inside were photographs. Letters. A lace handkerchief embroidered with "E.H." and—at the very bottom—a black velvet pouch.
Her fingers trembled as she opened it.
A key.Old, ornate. Silver with a mirror fragment embedded into its hilt. The shape matched the iron keyhole in the library door.
Elena's chest tightened.
Why did holding it feel like saying yes to something ancient?
Her thumb brushed the mirror shard in the key's design.
And for the briefest moment——she saw Julian, reflected in the glass.
But his eyes weren't calm.They were frantic. Desperate. Bleeding with silent agony.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She gasped and dropped the key. It hit the hardwood floor with a sharp, unforgiving clang that echoed through the stillness of the room.
Her own reflection shimmered in the nearby vanity mirror—just slightly, almost imperceptibly.The glass seemed to waver… almost as if it winced.
Slowly, trembling, she bent down and picked up the key. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.
Outside, the wind stirred, growing louder as it rattled the windows with urgent insistence.
In the dim hallway, the mirror hung silently on the wall.
Her reflection leaned forward—just a fraction—eyes wide, unnervingly intent.
Watching.Waiting.