"Some mirrors don't show your reflection.
They show the version that never left."
—------
The dream came in pieces.
First, the scent—faint lavender, old parchment, and blood warmed by candlelight. Then, the sound—heels clicking against marble, soft and certain, like a woman who knew the world would kneel.
And finally, the face.
She was standing behind the mirror again.
Not as a specter, not a whisper—but as herself. Or rather, as me. Older. Sharper. Her crimson gown moved like it remembered fire. And her gaze—oh, God—her gaze didn't reflect me. It judged me.
"You're wasting it," she said softly.
I tried to speak, but my throat burned.
She stepped closer—inside the mirror, yet somehow just inches from me. "The gift. The second chance. He came early this time. That means it's beginning."
"What is?" I choked out.
She only smiled.
And then, she lifted her hand.
So did I.
But her fingers didn't match mine.
They were bloodstained.
—------
I woke gasping. My sheets tangled, my skin damp with sweat. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the hallway light through the door I forgot to close.
The mirror stood untouched.
But I could feel her watching.
—------
Later that afternoon, Gustav found me in the museum's research wing, where I'd buried myself in catalog files, trying to drown the dream in decimals and accession codes.
"You're shaking," he said instead of greeting.
I looked up. "I didn't sleep well."
He sat across from me without asking. His face looked even paler under the archive lights. Eyes ringed with a fatigue that went deeper than sleep deprivation.
"Have you ever heard of the name 'Clarae' showing up in museum records?"
He stilled. "Where did you see it?"
I slid over an envelope I'd found that morning—wedged behind an old frame catalog. Its contents were brittle, but legible.
A letter.
Signed in rust-colored ink: Bathory.
The message was short.
She lives. She hides behind her own face. If you find the last Clarae, seal the frame. If not—she will return as bride or beast.
Gustav read it twice.
And then, something flickered in his eyes.
"Do you remember the first day we met?" he asked suddenly.
I blinked. "You mean… the vault?"
He shook his head. "Before that."
There was something broken in his voice. A tremor.
"No," I said slowly. "We met in the vault."
He looked away. "That's what I was afraid of."
"What's happening to me, Gustav?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached out—slowly, like he was approaching a wild animal—and took my hand.
The moment our skin touched, the air in the room… shifted.
I felt it like a pressure drop. Like a memory waking up.
Behind us, the mirror on the far wall—just a decorative piece, part of the 19th-century exhibit—rippled. No wind. No movement. Just a pulse.
Then a crack.
Hairline. Barely visible. But definitely there.
Gustav yanked his hand back.
And the ripple stopped.
We stared at each other.
"I think the mirror's reacting to us," I whispered.
He nodded slowly. "It's not just reflecting anymore. It's listening."
—------
That night, I stood in front of my own mirror again.
But it wasn't mine. Not anymore.
Because when I looked into it—really looked—I saw something behind my own eyes. A flicker of red silk. A crown made of teeth. A woman's laugh I couldn't place, but recognized in my bones.
And when I blinked—
She blinked a second later.
Not a reflection.
A delay.
A fracture.
Clara reached out instinctively, her fingertips grazing the glass.
The surface rippled—not like water, but like breath caught in the throat.
And in the reflection, she saw a version of herself. Older. Colder. Wearing a veil of deep crimson. Her eyes were black pools, void of fear or doubt.
She smiled. But it wasn't a warm smile. It was recognition. Victory.
Clara stumbled back. The woman in the glass remained. Not moving. Not copying. Simply... watching.
Then she moved her lips.
At first, Clara thought she was whispering—but no sound came through. Just a single, slow formation of three words:
"I am you."
"No," Clara whispered. "You're not."
The veiled woman tilted her head, amused. As if the denial was expected. As if it was part of the ritual.
Clara's heart thundered in her ears. She turned away—but the mirror didn't lose its grip. Something invisible, primal, held her in place. A presence at the base of her spine. The unmistakable certainty of being hunted… by herself.
The mirror pulsed again. This time, with something more deliberate. Almost like… breath.
Clara pressed both hands to the glass. "Who are you really?" she demanded. "What do you want from me?"
The woman didn't answer. Instead, the veil began to rise—not lifted by her hands, but by wind that didn't exist. Beneath the crimson silk: a face. Perfectly Clara's… but with too-symmetrical features, cheekbones sharper, lips stained red like ritual ink.
She wore a pendant. Clara recognized it. It had appeared in one of the portraits from the archive—the same bloodstone necklace Clara had dreamed about since childhood.
Clara gasped. "That was mine."
The woman mouthed, "It still is."
And then—Clara's bedroom around her darkened. Shadows stretched longer. Her own reflection began to distort—splitting into fragments, each fragment showing a different version of herself: one bound in chains, one wreathed in flames, one in mourning black with hollowed eyes.
The mirror—no longer just glass—was showing her lives she hadn't lived… yet.
Her knees gave out. She sank to the floor, still staring up at the spectral selves above her.
The veiled woman's smile grew wider.
And then, she moved.
She stepped forward—not closer in the reflection, but toward the edge of the glass.
Clara felt her breath freeze.
The woman raised her hand. Pressed it against the inside of the mirror.
Clara did the same.
Their palms aligned perfectly.
The glass was warm.
And beneath her fingertips… something pulsed.
One heartbeat.
Then two.
Then a third—out of sync.
Suddenly, a faint cut appeared on Clara's palm. Thin. Shallow. But real.
She cried out, recoiling.
The woman in the mirror?
She smiled wider.
And licked the blood off her own palm.
Then she spoke.
"You're waking up."
The mirror flashed red.
And shattered—only for a moment.
The image fractured—seven shards glowing like dying stars—before reforming again, whole but trembling.
When Clara looked again, the woman was gone.
Only her own reflection remained.
Breathless. Pale. Eyes filled with questions she was no longer afraid to ask.
—------
Across the city, Gustav dreamed.
He was kneeling in the center of a room made of glass.
Bathory stood in front of him, skin like wax, eyes black as a storm.
"You think love will save her," she said.
He tried to speak, but blood filled his mouth.
"She is your weakness. Your tether. Your unmaking."
"No," he managed to say. "She's the key."
Bathory smiled with a mouth full of broken mirrors.
"Then pray she never turns it."
He woke screaming.
And outside his window, every mirror in his flat cracked—at the same time.
—------