"When the mirror no longer shows you who you are, walk. Not to find your reflection — but to become the one the mirror can't hold." — The Codex Negare, Fragment 17—
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Clara stared at the spiral drawn in breath.
It felt like the end of a story she hadn't known was hers.
And suddenly, memories shifted—no, not memories. Familiarities.
The way Naomi had flinched at Gustav's voice, like she'd heard it say goodbye too many times.
The way she knew things before Clara spoke them.
The way her paintings resembled Clara's, but older. Rawer.
And the way, once, Clara had woken in the middle of the night to find Naomi crying in front of the mirror—
—but not reflected.
"She was the eighth Clara," Clara whispered. "The one the mirror refused. The one who remembered everything. That's why she's fading."
"She didn't fade," Gustav said, standing just behind her. "She sacrificed the rest of herself to open the way."
They stood in silence.
Then Clara touched the window.
The breath mark where Naomi had drawn the path glowed faintly under her palm.
The spiral pulsed — once every few seconds.
Like a heartbeat.
Like a warning.
"We don't have long," Clara said.
Gustav pulled out his pocketwatch.
"3:02," he murmured. "Eleven minutes."
Clara nodded. "Let's not waste them."
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Back in the bedroom, Clara picked up the scarf again.
The spiral shimmered faintly now — not woven, but alive. Like it was remembering her.
"Do you think she knew this was her last loop?" Clara asked.
"I think," Gustav said slowly, "she knew it might be yours."
Clara sat on the edge of the bed. "She could've taken my place. Maybe even tried."
"She didn't want to," he said. "That's what makes it different."
Clara tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
Gustav stepped forward, voice low. "Naomi could've found a way to anchor herself again. Become solid. Take your tether. Me, the mirror, the path. But she didn't. She chose to be... left behind."
"Or placed ahead," Clara whispered. "As a light."
They sat in silence for a beat, and then Clara's voice cracked.
"She wasn't just warning me. She was grieving me. Every version of me."
Gustav didn't speak. He didn't need to. He just reached out and took her hand, gently, grounding her.
Then Clara turned her gaze to the mirror above the dresser — the compass Naomi had drawn.
Before-Between-Beyond-Buried.
Each word shimmered, faintly echoing. But the spiral in the center beat stronger now.
"Why these directions?" Clara asked. "Not north, south, east, west…"
"Because," Gustav said, "this isn't about where we're going. It's about when. And what we're carrying."
Clara stood. Her energy sharpened now. "Then let's read it."
Gustav raised an eyebrow. "Read it?"
Clara pointed. "Before — that's the version of me who loved blindly. Between — the ones who lived but forgot. Beyond — the ones who broke through but shattered. Buried…"
She paused.
"That's Naomi."
Gustav's jaw clenched slightly. "And you?"
"I'm not on the compass," Clara said. "I'm what the compass points toward."
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She turned sharply, walking back into the living room, scarf still around her wrist. Her footsteps echoed louder now — not because the room had changed, but because she had.
Gustav followed. "Where are you going?"
"To find the next mark," she said. "Naomi wouldn't have stopped at one compass."
Sure enough, there it was. A new breath-mark near the base of the bookshelf, low, almost hidden behind an old painting.
Inside the mark: another spiral.
But this one had a word beneath it.
"Irene."
Clara's breath caught.
"Do you think she's still alive?" she asked.
"I think," Gustav said, "Naomi wouldn't have used a name if it didn't still mean something."
Clara nodded. "Then she's not just a goal. She's an anchor."
"Or a test," Gustav added. "Not all doors should be opened."
"But this one has to be," Clara said. "Because Naomi died opening it.
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They stared at the breath mark for a long moment.
Clara broke the silence. "Gustav… If we don't come back…"
He didn't hesitate. "Then we don't. But we go forward with all of them inside us."
Clara looked at him then — really looked. "You've always known more than you say."
Gustav smirked faintly. "And you've always said more than you realize."
They shared a quiet smile. Not joy. Not relief. Just something truer.
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Back in the hallway, another mirror fogged. No steam. Just breath. This time, the phrase:
"Remember only what helps you move."
Clara ran her finger through the fog.
"She doesn't want us carrying her grief. Just her map."
"She is the map," Gustav said. "Every breath, every smudge… it's her body remembering how to find the door."
Clara paused. "Do you think Naomi ever regretted it?"
"What?"
"Choosing silence over sorrow."
Gustav was quiet a beat. Then: "I think she regretted not choosing you."
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They walked slowly to the center of the apartment, where all breath-marks converged — like a constellation of memory.
Clara placed the scarf on the table. It shimmered brighter now, the spiral glowing faintly.
Then suddenly — it pulsed. Once. Twice.
"Did you see that?"
Gustav nodded. "It's reacting to the time."
Clara grabbed the pocketwatch. 3:08.
Five minutes.
Clara spoke quickly now. "Naomi said 3:13 is when we can reach Irene. What happens if we're late?"
"We miss the window," Gustav said. "Or worse — we enter at the wrong moment and get trapped in the mirror's in-between."
"And if we go early?"
"We get refused. Just like Naomi."
Clara looked toward the hallway mirror. It remained blank.
She nodded once. "Then we wait. But ready."
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They stood together. Wind shifted outside. The room pulsed quietly with spirals, words, breath and ink.
Then Gustav said something unexpected.
"Clara…"
She turned.
"If we find Irene… and if she's not what we hope…"
Clara stepped closer. "Then we make a new ending."
He exhaled. "Together?"
"Always," she said.
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The pocketwatch ticked.
3:10.
The spiral in the scarf flared brighter — then dimmed.
Clara reached for Gustav's hand. Her voice steady now.
"When the mirror says nothing… that's how we'll know."
"And what if it never speaks again?" he asked.
Clara smiled.
"Then it means it's listening."
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