Morning light spilled across the apartment, pale and cold. Isolde sat at her desk, staring at the black card beside her coffee cup. The serpent's silver eyes seemed to glint in rhythm with her pulse. She hadn't slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the mirror, saw herself smiling back with a hunger she didn't recognize.
Her phone vibrated. A message from an unknown number again.
Did you dream of me?
She didn't reply. She deleted the message, turned off the phone, and tried to focus on her notes for the day's sessions. But the words blurred. Every patient's story seemed to echo her own—control, fear, desire, surrender. By noon, she gave up pretending to work.
The scent of roses lingered again, faint but constant. It clung to her clothes, her hair, her skin. She washed her hands until they were raw, but it didn't fade.
When she looked up, she saw movement in the reflection of her office window. A figure standing behind her. She turned sharply. No one was there.
Her heart pounded. She pressed her palms to the desk, forcing herself to breathe. The reflection in the glass steadied. But for a moment, she could have sworn the figure had been smiling.
That night, she didn't wait for another invitation. She went back to The Veil.
The masked man at the door said nothing, only stepped aside. The corridors were darker than before, the music slower, deeper. The air shimmered with heat and perfume. Every step she took felt heavier, as if the building itself were breathing.
Damien was waiting in the mirrored chamber. He stood with his back to her, his reflection multiplied endlessly around them.
"You shouldn't have come alone," he said without turning.
"I wasn't invited this time."
He faced her. "You didn't need to be."
She crossed her arms. "You said I'd remember. I don't."
"You will."
He gestured toward the mirror. "Look."
She hesitated, then stepped closer. The surface rippled again, faintly alive. Her reflection blinked once, then smiled.
"What do you see?" Damien asked.
"Myself."
"Look closer."
The reflection's eyes darkened. The smile widened. Then, slowly, the reflection raised its hand and pressed it against the glass. A faint pulse of light spread outward, like a heartbeat.
Isolde's breath caught. "What is this?"
"The part of you that's been waiting," Damien said. "The part you buried."
The reflection's lips moved, but no sound came. Then, faintly, she heard it—her own voice, but lower, rougher, filled with something dangerous.
You left me here.
She stumbled back. "What—what does that mean?"
Damien stepped closer. "You've been here before."
"That's impossible."
"Is it?" His gaze held hers. "You think this is the first time you've sought truth? The first time you've wanted to be unmade?"
Her pulse raced. "You're lying."
He smiled faintly. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't already know."
The reflection moved again, pressing both hands to the glass. The surface shimmered, and for a moment, Isolde saw flashes—images that weren't hers. A woman in a crimson dress. A hand reaching through darkness. A whisper: Say my name.
She gasped and stepped back. The images vanished. The mirror was still.
Damien's voice was quiet. "You remember now."
"I don't."
"You will."
He reached out, brushing his fingers along her wrist. "Every truth begins with surrender."
She pulled away. "I'm not one of your followers."
"No," he said softly. "You're something else."
He turned toward the door. "Go home, Dr. Crane. The mirror will find you again."
She wanted to demand answers, but the words wouldn't come. When she looked back at the mirror, her reflection was gone. Only darkness stared back.
At home, the apartment felt colder than before. She poured a glass of wine, trying to steady her hands. The city outside was silent, the rain finally gone. She sat on the couch, staring at the black card on the table.
Then she heard it—a faint whisper, like breath against her ear.
Say my name.
She froze. The voice was hers, but not hers. It came from the mirror across the room.
She stood slowly, heart hammering. The reflection was there again, smiling faintly.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
The reflection tilted its head. "You already know."
The glass rippled once, and the scent of roses filled the air.
When she blinked, the reflection was gone.
But on the surface of the mirror, written in condensation, were two words:
Welcome back.