The diary felt like it hummed in her hands.
Elena sat by her window under the soft spill of moonlight. Her fingers hovered over the first page for a long moment before she turned it.
The scent of old ink and faded roses greeted her—like a breath from another time.
March 3, 1872She walked through the rose garden today, barefoot. As if the thorns could not touch her. As if the world dared not wound her. She is not mine yet. But I feel the pull—like tides drawn to the moon.
Elena blinked.
The handwriting was elegant, almost melodic. Each word felt carefully chosen, steeped in longing. Page after page unraveled the tale of a man who had once lived in this very house—a man who had once loved someone exactly like her.
April 17, 1872They say she is cursed. That every man who falls for her vanishes. But what is a curse, if not a fate misunderstood? If loving her damns me, then let me be damned gladly.
She clutched the book tighter, heart beating a little too fast.
Julian had loved someone who looked like her. A woman people feared. A woman whose very presence was seen as a danger. But to him, she was everything.
Just like… now?
She turned another page.
June 1, 1872The mirror stirred tonight. Its surface rippled like water though none had touched it. I heard my name in the dark—no, I felt it. As if her voice called from beyond the veil.
Elena paused.
The mirror again.
It had existed even then. Watching. Listening.
She glanced across the room to where the silver mirror now stood on her vanity. The surface was still and silent… for now.
But something inside her knew—this was just the beginning.
🪞Flashback Fragment: 19th Century, Rosehill Manor
The ballroom was alive with music, chandeliers glowing like stars.
Julian Blackthorne stood at the edge of the dance floor, his eyes fixed on the girl in silver lace. Her laughter was a melody that echoed through his every breath.
She turned.
And smiled.
He stepped forward.
But the moment he reached for her hand, the mirror above the fireplace cracked down the center—splitting their reflections in two.
🪞Present Day
Elena gasped, dropping the book. Her chest heaved as if she had lived the memory, not just read it. The taste of roses lingered on her tongue. The sound of violins whispered in her ears.
The mirror on her vanity shimmered.
And then—he was there.
Julian.
He appeared like smoke behind the glass—handsome, regal, solemn. No flicker this time. No fading figure. Just… him.
He raised his hand slowly.
As if reaching for her.
"Elena," he whispered.
She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
He smiled. A heartbreaking smile.
"You came back," he said.
And in her heart, something cracked open.
Memories that weren't hers. Feelings she couldn't name. A love she hadn't lived—and yet, had always carried.
"I don't understand," she said, tears stinging her eyes.
"You will," Julian replied. "But hurry, Elena. They're already watching."
"Who?" she asked.
The mirror darkened.
But just before it faded completely, he whispered a final word:
"Ashthorne."
"Ashthorne."
The name echoed in her mind long after the mirror went still.
Elena sat frozen, her skin clammy with cold sweat. It was as if the word itself held weight, like centuries of secrets compressed into a single breath. Julian was gone—but his presence still lingered, stitched into the air like static before a storm.
She stumbled to her feet and pulled her laptop onto her lap. Her fingers hesitated over the keys before she typed:
Ashthorne family history. Rosehill. Julian Blackthorne.
The screen loaded slowly, agonizingly. Most of the results were dead ends—mentions of abandoned estates, a few faded grave records, some obscure historical journals. Then, at the bottom of the page, one link caught her eye:
"The Ashthorne Curse: Unsolved Mysteries of the Blackthorne Lineage" – archived academic article, 2003.
She clicked.
The document opened to a worn scan of an old publication. In ornate serif font:
"In 1873, the Ashthorne family name was erased from public records after a series of unnatural deaths surrounding the engagement of Julian Blackthorne, heir to Rosehill Manor, and a woman named Seraphina. Some say the Ashthornes dabbled in forbidden rites—others claim it was a vendetta, vengeance for a love never meant to be."
Seraphina.
The name pulled at her heart. Like she'd known it. Like she'd been it.
She read on, fingers trembling:
"The legend claims the mirror in Rosehill was once the property of the Ashthornes, said to be cursed with blood-bound memory. It is believed the mirror doesn't reflect the present—it remembers the past."
A sharp knock at her door broke the silence.
"Elena?" Lily's voice, concerned. "Are you okay? You haven't come down all day."
"I—I'm fine. Just tired."
"You sure?"
"Yes," she lied.
When she turned back to her laptop, the screen had gone black. Static buzzed faintly. Then—The sound of distant violins.
Again.
No music was playing in the house.
She slammed the lid shut.
🪞Later that Night
Sleep evaded her, but her mind painted vivid pictures in its place—visions of a masked ball, candles flickering across marble floors, and Julian's voice whispering stories against her ear.
In her dream, she stood beneath a rose-covered archway. Julian was there again, dressed in 19th-century black. He didn't speak. He simply held out his hand.
She took it.
And everything else faded away.
🪞The Next Morning
Elena woke up with a dried rose petal in her hand.
And her diary flipped open on her nightstand.
The page read:
"When the veil between past and present thins, remember: the Ashthornes never forget. And they never forgive."