The next day passed in fragments. Isolde barely remembered driving to the hospital, barely remembered the faces of her patients. Every sound seemed distant, every voice muffled, as if she were underwater. The only thing that felt real was the memory of the mirror—the way her reflection had smiled when she hadn't.
By evening, she was exhausted. She told herself she would go home, sleep, forget. But when she reached her apartment, the air inside felt wrong. The scent of roses lingered again, faint but unmistakable.
She checked every room. Nothing was out of place. Yet when she returned to the living room, she saw it: a single black rose lying on her coffee table, its petals glistening as if wet.
Her phone buzzed. A message.
Did you see her?
Her fingers trembled. Who is this?
The one in the mirror.
She dropped the phone. It hit the floor with a dull thud. The message vanished before she could pick it up again.
She sat down, pressing her hands to her face. This was madness. Hallucination. Stress. But deep down, she knew it wasn't.
The knock came just after midnight. Three soft raps against the door.
She froze.
Another knock.
She crossed the room slowly, her bare feet silent on the floor. When she opened the door, no one was there—only an envelope, black and sealed with silver wax.
Inside was a note written in elegant handwriting.
You left too soon. The mirror isn't finished.
Beneath the note was another card, identical to the first, but this one bore a single word on the back: Tonight.
She stared at it for a long time, her pulse hammering in her throat. Then she grabbed her coat.
The Veil was quieter than before. The music was softer, the light dimmer. The masked man at the door said nothing as she entered.
Damien was waiting in the same mirrored chamber. He looked exactly as he had before—composed, unreadable, dangerous.
"You came back," he said.
"I want answers."
He gestured toward the chair. "Then sit."
She hesitated, then obeyed.
He moved behind her, his reflection multiplying around them. "You saw her, didn't you?"
"My reflection?"
He smiled faintly. "Not your reflection. Your truth."
"I don't believe in this."
"You don't have to. Belief is irrelevant. The mirror shows what you hide."
He placed his hands on her shoulders again. "Close your eyes."
She did.
"Breathe," he whispered. "Let go."
The air thickened. The scent of roses deepened until it was almost suffocating. The room seemed to hum, a low vibration that pulsed through her bones.
"Open your eyes."
She did—and gasped.
The mirrors no longer showed her sitting in the chair. They showed her standing, her hair loose, her eyes dark with something between fear and desire. The woman in the reflection smiled, slow and deliberate.
"Who are you?" Isolde whispered.
The reflection tilted its head. "You already know."
Damien's voice was soft behind her. "She's the part of you that doesn't pretend."
The reflection stepped closer to the glass, pressing her palm against it. The surface rippled like water.
"Touch her," Damien said.
Isolde hesitated. "What happens if I do?"
"You'll see."
Her hand trembled as she reached out. The glass was warm again, pulsing faintly beneath her fingertips. The reflection's hand met hers—and then the world shifted.
The room darkened. The mirrors dissolved into shadow. She was standing now, though she didn't remember rising. Damien was in front of her, closer than before.
"Where am I?" she whispered.
"Inside," he said. "Where you've always been."
He reached out, brushing his fingers along her jaw. "You've spent your life studying desire, Doctor. But you've never felt it without fear."
Her breath caught. "And you think you can change that?"
"I already have."
He leaned closer, his voice a whisper against her ear. "The mirror doesn't lie. It only reveals."
She wanted to step back, but her body wouldn't obey. The air between them was charged, heavy with something she couldn't name.
Then, just as suddenly, the light returned. The mirrors were still. Her reflection was her own again.
Damien stepped away, his expression unreadable. "Now you understand why Victor couldn't leave."
She swallowed hard. "What do you want from me?"
He smiled faintly. "Nothing you aren't already willing to give."
He turned toward the door. "Go home, Dr. Crane. Rest. Tomorrow, you'll begin to remember."
"Remember what?"
He looked back at her, his eyes dark and knowing. "Who you were before you forgot."
The door closed behind him, leaving her alone with her reflection.
For a long time, she didn't move. Then she looked up—and saw that her reflection was still smiling.
But this time, so was she.