"Some paintings don't capture the past. They ignite the future."
—------
Clara didn't realize she was moving until her fingertips brushed the edge of the velvet-wrapped canvas.
It was heavier than it should've been.
Not in weight — in intent.
She unwrapped it slowly, layer by layer, as if peeling back someone else's memory.
The painting revealed itself like breath on glass.
Her breath caught.
She was staring at herself.
Not in the mirror. In oil and shadow.
The same face. But not the same eyes.
The woman in the painting wore a gown the color of drying blood. Her hair, loose and wind-tossed, framed her face like smoke. Her hand was lifted, palm open, but fingers curled — like inviting or warning.
Behind her: a burning chandelier. A mirror, cracked but still watching. And a man kneeling at her feet with chains around his neck.
Gustav.
Or something that used to be him.
Clara's pulse fluttered.
She took one step closer.
Then another.
And something burned.
Not heat — but memory. A line behind her eyes, a tremor in her gut, like a scream she hadn't let out yet.
Her breath shortened. Not from exertion — but anticipation.
Something in her bones knew this moment.
Not remembered it. Knew it. Like a ritual too old for memory, too sacred for forgetting.
The closer she got to the painting, the more the world around her faded.
The shelves behind her? Silent.
The flickering bulb overhead? Gone.
Even her own heartbeat had quieted, as if not to interrupt what was coming.
She didn't blink.
The woman in the painting didn't move. But her presence grew.
Like a storm in velvet.
Like a queen in waiting.
Clara's throat dried.
A thought, uninvited, slithered in:
This is not the first time you've stood here.
And it won't be the last.
Her chest tightened.
Where had that voice come from?
She looked behind her. No one. The mirror remained shrouded. The air—still.
The voice wasn't outside her.
It was inside.
Clara clenched her fists. "No," she whispered, though she didn't know what she was denying.
But the voice — if it was a voice — only smiled in her mind.
You always return. Always.
Her eyes darted back to the painting.
Now the flame behind the painted Clara seemed brighter.
Was that wax dripping down the canvas? No—
It was blood.
Dark, glistening.
Pooling around the base of the throne barely visible in the shadows behind her portrait self.
And the Gustav figure — the one kneeling, the one in chains — was looking up now.
His eyes were hollow. And pleading.
But the woman in red didn't turn.
Clara's heart pounded.
Why is this so familiar?
A scent drifted through the room. Old. Metallic. Like burnt roses and rusted silver.
The taste of forgotten weddings. The smell of punished vows.
She should've run.
But instead, she leaned closer.
And heard it — not words, not breath — but a truth.
You asked to be loved forever.
So the mirror obliged.
And now it wants you back.
Clara's stomach dropped.
She tried to blink away the sensation, but it clung to her ribs like frostbite.
What mirror?
What promise?
Her hand rose again.
No matter how much her mind screamed to stop, her arm obeyed something older than fear.
And now — she could see it clearly:
The eyes of the painted Clara were not hers.
They were deeper. Sadder. Unrepentant.
Not cruel — resigned.
Like someone who had already burned for a thousand years and would do it all again.
Clara swallowed.
Something about this moment felt final.
Not in a mortal way. In a soul-bound way.
Her fingers trembled just inches from the canvas.
Another breath passed. Another truth surfaced.
If you touch her... you'll remember who you used to be.
If you don't... you'll never become who you're meant to be.
Tears gathered in the corner of her eyes.
She didn't know why.
But she was grieving.
Grieving a version of herself that hadn't lived yet — or had lived too many times and failed.
Then — from the heart of the painting — a pulse.
A ripple in oil and time.
The painted woman blinked.
Clara froze.
So did the world.
And the whisper — no longer internal — exhaled through the cracks in reality:
"Come home."
—------
She reached out to touch the corner of the frame.
Just the frame.
But the flame from the chandelier behind the painted Clara leapt.
Not physically. Spiritually.
It lit up behind her own ribs.
And her hand — her real hand — began to glow.
She gasped, staring at her skin as faint spiral lines etched themselves into her palm in light — no pain, no wound — just searing knowledge.
Then came the pain.
It hit her like a whip of lightning through every nerve. Her knees gave way. She fell, her hand slamming to the cold marble floor of the archive.
Blood bloomed beneath it.
But it didn't spread randomly.
The droplets crawled, like they were alive. They curled into a perfect spiral — a Codex seal — just like the one she'd seen in dreams she never remembered waking from.
Behind her, something stirred in the air.
The lights flickered. Pages turned themselves.
And the mirror behind her — the one with the covered glass — started to hum.
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't blink.
And then—Gustav was there.
He dropped beside her, wide-eyed. "Clara. What happened?"
She lifted her hand, showed him the spiral burn.
The blood-sign on the floor pulsed.
Gustav stared at it. "This… this isn't an accident."
He looked at the painting — and froze.
His voice cracked.
"I've seen this before."
Clara blinked, dazed. "In the dreams?"
He shook his head. "No. In the Codex Negare."
He pulled off his satchel, yanked out a thick manuscript — old and warped with mildew. He flipped to a page halfway through.
The illustration was crude, but the composition was the same: a woman in red. A man in chains. A spiral of symbols glowing under her hand.
"She who burns the mirror from the inside… opens the gate only once."
He looked at Clara's palm. "You didn't just wake something. You opened a door."
Beneath them, the floor clicked.
A square tile loosened itself, like it had been waiting centuries for this exact moment.
Clara and Gustav stared at it.
Neither moved.
Then, softly — almost too soft to notice — a whisper rose from the mirror behind them.
A voice like velvet over broken glass.
"She's waiting."
Gustav turned.
The covered mirror was no longer still.
Faint fog swirled inside it.
But there was no reflection.
Only a hallway of candles.
And in the distance… a woman in white, back turned, hand outstretched.
Waiting.
—------