The next morning, Isolde woke to silence. The city outside was still, the air heavy with fog. Her reflection in the mirror across the room looked pale, hollow-eyed, but calm. Too calm. She turned away quickly, refusing to meet its gaze for long.
She tried to return to her routine—coffee, notes, the quiet hum of her office—but everything felt wrong. Her patients' voices blurred together, their words dissolving into echoes of her own thoughts. Every story of fear and desire sounded like a confession she had already made.
By late afternoon, she couldn't focus. She dismissed her last appointment early and sat alone in her office, staring at the rain streaking down the window. The scent of roses returned, faint but unmistakable. It was no longer just a smell; it was a presence.
Her phone buzzed once. A message appeared.
You're remembering.
She typed back before she could stop herself.
Who are you?
The reply came instantly.
The one you left behind.
Her pulse quickened. She stood, pacing the room. "This isn't real," she whispered. "It's not real."
But when she looked up, her reflection in the window was smiling again.
That night, she dreamed of The Veil.
The corridors were endless, lined with mirrors that breathed like living things. She walked barefoot, her footsteps silent on the marble floor. The air shimmered with heat and perfume. Somewhere ahead, she heard Damien's voice.
You can't hide from what you are.
She turned a corner and saw him standing before a door of black glass. He extended his hand. "Come back," he said. "Finish what you started."
When she woke, her heart was pounding. The clock read 2:47 a.m. The apartment was dark, but the scent of roses was stronger than ever. She sat up—and froze.
The black card lay on her nightstand again. She had locked it away days ago.
This time, there was something new written on the back, in silver ink.
The Mirror Awaits.
The Veil was nearly empty when she arrived. The masked man at the door didn't speak, only nodded once and stepped aside. The music was slower tonight, a low hum that seemed to vibrate through her bones.
Damien was waiting in the mirrored chamber, his expression unreadable. "You came."
"I didn't have a choice."
"There's always a choice," he said softly. "But truth has a way of calling louder than fear."
She crossed her arms. "You said I'd remember. I still don't."
He stepped closer. "Then let me help you."
He reached out, his fingers brushing her temple. The touch was light, almost reverent. The mirrors around them flickered, their surfaces rippling like water. Images began to form—fragments of memory, flashes of another life.
A woman in a crimson dress. A hand reaching through darkness. A whisper: Say my name.
She gasped and stumbled back. "What is this?"
"Memory," Damien said. "Yours."
"No. I've never—"
"You have," he interrupted gently. "You were here before, long ago. You sought the mirror then, too. You wanted to see what lay beneath your control."
She shook her head. "That's impossible."
He smiled faintly. "You don't have to believe me. The mirror will show you."
The reflection in the glass shifted again. This time, it wasn't her face that stared back—it was the woman in the crimson dress, eyes dark with longing, lips curved in a knowing smile.
"Who is she?" Isolde whispered.
Damien's voice was low. "The part of you that remembers."
The reflection raised a hand, pressing it against the glass. The surface pulsed once, like a heartbeat. Then, faintly, the reflection spoke.
Welcome home.
The sound was her own voice.
Isolde stumbled back, her breath catching. "What do you want from me?"
Damien's gaze held hers. "Not what I want. What you've already asked for."
He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. "You came here to understand desire. To understand fear. But they're the same thing, aren't they?"
She couldn't answer. The air between them was charged, heavy with something she couldn't name.
He leaned closer, his voice a whisper. "You can't run from what you are, Doctor. You can only remember."
The mirrors darkened again, swallowing the light. For a moment, she saw nothing but her own reflection—eyes wide, lips parted, trembling between terror and want.
Then the darkness whispered back.
Say my name.
When the lights returned, Damien was gone. The room was empty. Only her reflection remained, smiling faintly in the glass.
And this time, when it whispered, the voice was hers.