Some kisses feel like memory. Others feel like warning.
—--------
The East Wing had always felt like a hushed cathedral. Cold, reverent, and thick with breathless waiting. But that evening, it felt warmer—too warm.
I shouldn't have gone alone. I told myself it was just to log inventory for my internship. But deep down, I was hoping the mirror would stir again. Whisper something. Show me something.
It did.
But not the way I expected.
I had just stepped into the corridor when I heard footsteps behind me. Sharp, confident. Familiar.
I turned. "Professor?"
"Clara," Gustav said—his voice low, his smile easy. "I was hoping I'd find you here."
He looked different.
No coat. His sleeves rolled up, exposing veined forearms and a small ink smear by his wrist. His hair slightly tousled, eyes darker than I remembered. Not tired, not guarded—hungry.
"You're… early," I said.
"For what?" he asked, closing the distance between us.
"I don't know. I thought we were meeting later this week, after class."
He smiled again. It was charming, but not the kind I trusted.
"We don't need to wait," he said. "Not anymore."
I took a step back instinctively. "You're acting weird."
"Am I?" He tilt ed his head. "Or are you finally remembering me?"
Before I could respond, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face.
His touch was electric. Intimate. Too familiar. My heart fluttered—and then panicked.
"Gustav—" I began.
His fingers grazed my jaw. "Do you know how long I've waited for you to come back to me?" he murmured. "In every cycle, in every fracture, you always run. But not this time. Please—not this time."
His lips were suddenly on mine.
Warm. Demanding.
And it wasn't that I didn't respond.
It's that something inside me did, before I could think.
A part of me leaned in, as if it knew this taste. This moment. This man.
But another part—the rational, shaking Clara of here and now—was screaming.
I pulled away. "Wait. What the hell are you talking about?"
His eyes flashed. "You know. You feel it too. In your bones."
He pressed his hand to my chest, right over my heart. "You've always been mine."
My breath hitched. This wasn't Gustav.
Not the one who drank tea without sugar. Not the one who spoke gently and held his distance like it was sacred.
His gaze locked onto mine—intense, almost reverent. But beneath that reverence was something else. Possession. Hunger. History.
He cupped my face like he'd done it a hundred times before. His thumb brushed the corner of my lip with such tenderness, it made my breath catch.
"You always smelled like lavender and ink," he whispered. "Even when we burned the letters."
"What letters?" I asked, voice barely audible.
He didn't answer. His eyes flicked toward the far end of the hallway, just for a second—then returned to mine. "I thought I'd lost you forever. When the veil closed, when the crows screamed—do you remember the storm? The night your blood ran over the Codex?"
"No," I whispered, trembling. "I don't remember any of that.
"But your body does." He placed his palm on my chest again. "It always remembers."
He leaned closer. His breath smelled of wine and something metallic—like rusted keys. Like memory.
"I begged you not to shatter it," he said. "But you did. You did, Clara. And you left me in there."
"In where?" I asked, stepping back. "What are you talking about?"
He blinked. "The mirror."
It wasn't just words. It was confession. Like he'd waited centuries to speak it aloud.
"I watched you die in six timelines," he said slowly. "And in all of them, I couldn't stop it. But in this one... I came early."
A soft hum vibrated from the walls—no, from the mirror itself. The temperature shifted—something behind me pulsed.
I looked toward it for just a moment.
And when I turned back—he was closer again.
"But you're not him," I breathed.
He tilted his head, wounded. "I was. I am. Just... earlier. Stronger. Less afraid."
He leaned down again, lips brushing my ear. "And I know what this body does when it misses me."
His hand slid to the curve of my neck—and just as I tensed, prepared to shove him off—
"CLARA!"
Another Gustav—coat flapping, eyes wild, panic twisting his face—ran toward me, footsteps slamming against stone.
"Get away from him!" he shouted. "That's not me—not me now—Clara, MOVE!"
I froze.
The Gustav beside me blinked. Slowly. And smiled.
"Well," he murmured, "he's early this time."
And then—
He vanished.
Not in a puff. Not in a blink.
He folded inward—like a curtain collapsing into shadow. Gone before my mind could fully register what it had just seen.
I stumbled backward. Gustav—the real one?—caught me.
His hands were cold. Steady. Familiar.
He held me by the shoulders, eyes scanning mine. "Are you okay? Did he touch you? Did he—?"
I shoved him away. Not in anger. In confusion.
"What the hell just happened?"
He opened his mouth—then closed it. Shook his head. "You saw him."
"No kidding." My voice cracked. "Who was he?"
Gustav exhaled. "Another version of me."
—------
We sat on the floor of the East Wing, backs against a crate of dusty canvases. The mirror stood nearby, tall and silent. Its surface was undisturbed. Innocent.
But I knew better now.
"I've never kissed you," I whispered.
He looked at me sharply.
"That... wasn't our first kiss."
"No," he said. "Not yours and mine."
My chest tightened. "But it was real."
He nodded.
"And you remember it."
"I do," he said softly. "Because it already happened. In another thread. Another path."
"Was that Gustav you?"
His eyes dropped. "He was me. But not me now. Not the one who sits across from you in lecture halls. Not the one who brewed you coffee during your third-week breakdown."
"But close enough to kiss me," I said bitterly.
He flinched.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I should've warned you. I didn't know he'd show up this soon."
I buried my face in my hands. "This is insane. I'm being kissed by ghosts of men I've never dated."
"They're not ghosts," he said. "They're echoes. Pieces. The mirror doesn't just show them. It lets them through, sometimes. Especially when emotions are high."
"Why me?"
Gustav looked at the mirror for a long moment before answering.
"Because you're the turning point. The reason he always comes back. You're not just the anchor, Clara… you're the way out."
My voice trembled. "He said I always ran."
Gustav's jaw tightened.
"You did. In six different cycles. And every single time… he found you first."
I turned to him, heart racing. "What does that even mean?"
He drew in a slow, steady breath. "He's not just a version of me. He's the one who failed to save you. Now he believes this is his last chance to keep a promise you don't even remember making."
My stomach dropped. A cold twist of dread settled behind my ribs.
"He thinks your love is the key to undo everything he lost. Even if it means taking you somewhere you can never come back from."
I barely whispered, "But I don't remember him."
Gustav's voice softened, but it held weight.
"He remembers enough for both of you."
I turned back to the mirror. Its surface pulsed—not with an image, just a faint shimmer of red.
Like breath.
Like a warning.
—-------
Later that night, I stood in front of the mirror again. Alone this time.
I stared at my reflection.
Same wide eyes. Same trembling hands. But something was different.
I touched the glass.
It was cold again.
Then, like a ripple on water, his face appeared—that Gustav. The one who kissed me.
He didn't speak.
He just looked at me. Sad. Fierce.
Then he touched the inside of the glass.
Exactly where my hand was.
A perfect mirror.
A perfect lie.
And then, he mouthed three words:
"You loved me."
My throat closed.
"No," I whispered. "Not yet. Not this time."
The mirror dimmed.
Only my reflection remained.
And behind me—in the room's dark corner—a faint line cracked across the wall.
Not the wall.
The mirror.
Hairline.
Tiny.
But there.
The first fracture.
—-------