The forest behind the house had never felt right.
Even as children, Isla and Elara had played near it, never inside it. They'd called it "The Edge," as if it were the boundary between worlds. Isla used to say that when the wind got quiet in the woods, something else was listening.
Elara never believed it.
Not until now.
The audio file still echoed in her mind.
"Mara is Elara. Or who Elara became to survive. But she's angry now. She wants the truth."
It had been three days since that night in front of the mirror, the night her reflection had smiled and whispered: "You remember what you did, don't you?"
Three days since Margaret vanished.
Three days since Elara read the torn journal pages Isla had hidden, revealing what happened in the basement. The fall. The lie. The silence that had buried their father's death under stories and ghosts.
Elara had thought the memory was the end of it.
But it wasn't.
Now something else was calling her.
And it was coming from the woods.
She packed a flashlight, her phone, and Isla's silver pendant, the eye-shaped one. A small knife from the kitchen went into her coat pocket. She wasn't sure why. Instinct.
It was nearly sunset. The house cast long shadows as she stepped off the porch and into the brush, following the crooked path behind the backyard that led to the forest.
Leaves whispered in the breeze.
The sky shifted from pale to bruised.
She moved past the trees like a ghost returning to the place where she'd died.
The cabin came into view faster this time.
No longer hidden, no longer unfamiliar, it welcomed her like a memory she hadn't wanted. Its roof sagged, its windows black and empty. The door still leaned inward, and the word MARA still clawed across the back wall like a scream in wood.
But that wasn't what drew her today.
Something else shimmered in her periphery.
Movement. To the right.
She followed it.
Deeper.
Past the edge of the known.
She didn't know how far she'd gone when she found it.
A clearing.
Dead quiet.
And in the center, half-buried under a fallen log, was a cell phone.
Black. Cracked screen.
Old — not Isla's.
Elara's breath caught.
She crouched, brushed dirt from the screen, and picked it up. It was cold, dead, and heavy in her palm.
She pressed the power button.
Nothing.
She turned it over.
Duct tape on the back. A tiny slip of paper was shoved under it.
She peeled it off.
One word is written in blue ink, barely legible:
"LISTEN."
She returned home with the phone in her jacket, hands numb despite her gloves.
Once inside, she placed it on the table like it might explode.
No charger fit, it was too old. But Margaret's closet had a drawer filled with cords, adapters, and all the junk she never threw away.
Twenty minutes later, the screen blinked on.
No SIM. No apps.
Just like Isla's secret phone.
But one folder.
"RECORDINGS."
She hesitated, then opened it.
The first file was dated July 11th, two days before Isla died.
Her voice was faint.
"If someone finds this… I think they're following me now. Not just in the house. The woods. I saw them again. Elara? I don't know anymore."
"She changes at night. Her face doesn't always look like her. Sometimes she says things she doesn't remember. Sometimes she stares too long at the mirror."
"I don't know what's real. But I know I'm not safe."
Click.
Second file.
"I found something in Mom's closet. A photo. Him. Dad. But he's not alone. There's a woman. Not Mom. Not Anna."
"She looks like Elara. But older. Wrong. Same smile. Same eyes. The date's been scratched off."
"I think that woman is Mara."
Elara's breath caught.
Another file.
"She came to my room last night. Said she was Elara. But her voice was off. Like she was speaking through someone else."
"She asked if I remembered what we did. When I didn't answer, she smiled and said I would soon."
"I locked my door. But I don't think locks matter anymore."
The final file was nearly silent.
But a voice broke through near the end.
Not Isla's.
Not Elara's.
"You buried me. Now I'm coming back."
Click.
Elara turned off the phone and stared at the dark window.
Outside, something moved.
She ran upstairs.
Straight to the mirror.
It greeted her.
The reflection was not hers.
The woman in the mirror was older. Paler. The hair is the same, but stringy. The mouth is wrong. Wider.
"Mara," Elara whispered.
The woman smiled.
"Getting close," she said softly. "Almost there."
"I remember what happened," Elara said. "I remember the basement. I remember the fire."
"No," the reflection whispered. "That's what you remember. That's what you built."
Elara stepped closer.
"What do you mean?"
"You're missing the last piece," Mara said.
"What piece?"
Mara pressed her hand against the glass.
"You didn't push him."
Elara's knees buckled.
"What?"
"You didn't push him," Mara said again. "She did."
"Who?"
The reflection leaned forward.
"Your mother."
The lights flickered.
The mirror cracked not visibly, not with glass, but with sound. A keening hum in the back of Elara's head.
And then everything went black.
When she woke, she was lying on the hallway floor.
Her phone was buzzing in her pocket.
A message.
Unknown Number:
"Look under her bed."
Elara sat up slowly.
Her body ached. Her mind spun.
Under her mother's bed?
She stood, dizzy, heart hammering.
The hallway stretched long and dark ahead of her.
She took one step.
Then another.
And opened Margaret's bedroom door.
It was dim, musty. Lavender and antiseptic still clung to the air.
She knelt beside the bed and pulled up the bed skirt.
Boxes. Books. Shoes.
And a bag. Old. Leather.
Inside were papers.
Letters. Documents.
And a single envelope labeled:
"To Elara, when you remember."
She opened it with trembling fingers.
Inside was a letter, scrawled in Margaret's hand.
"Elara,
If you're reading this, then I know the mirror has spoken to you. I know Mara has come.
I need you to know the truth.
You didn't kill your father.
I did.
He was going to take Isla. He'd done things… terrible things. I confronted him. He hit me. He dragged her outside.
You were already unconscious from the fall. You didn't see. I shoved him. He fell.
I told you it was a dream. I told you Mara did it. You believed me.
I let you carry that weight. I thought I was protecting you.
But Mara was born from guilt mine and yours. And now she wants to be seen.
I'm sorry.
Mom."
Elara stared at the page.
Silent.
Shaking.
Everything she remembered… had been a lie.