Julian Blackthorne recalled the day she departed.
Not Elena.
The first one.
The first bride.
Her face had ebbed from memory, yet the pain—centuries old—adhered to him like glassy frost. She had caressed the mirror once. Had spoken his name as a vow. Then disappeared into the world outside, never to come back.
He was left standing, waiting.
Endless night and day dissolved into an eerie eternity within this glass and silver prison. A shadow palace no one could notice—except for those who were supposed to.
Until now.
Until her.
Elena Harper.
She had her grandmother's backbone and something else… something fragile and raw he didn't yet comprehend.
She had touched nothing, and yet awakened everything.
He could feel the ripple along the mirror as soon as her fingers brushed against Eleanor's journal. His former bride's secret wards crumbled.
She was unlocking it—without even effort.
From his perspective, he could see her more clearly now. Each movement within the manor echoed in his own as if ghosts walked through a dream.
But Julian could only reach so far. Only whisper when the veil thinned. And only watch… for now.
"Do not be afraid of me, Elena."
His voice didn't echo in the room.
It echoed in her.
Downstairs, Elena stared at the journal.
The handwriting was still there.
"You look just like her."
"But she never stayed."
"Who are you?" she whispered aloud, her voice cracking. "What do you want from me?"
The response was not given in words, but in the house itself.
A loud clang echoed through the walls—like metal cracking.
She ran up the stairs, fear coiling in her stomach.
The chains on the armoire had snapped. Not unlocked—splintered, as if from the inside.
The padlocks were in pieces on the ground.
Elena stretched out a trembling hand for the handle… but before she could open it, a knock sounded throughout the manor.
Three slow knocks.
Not on the door.
Not on the window.
From the inside of the mirror.
Elena's breath caught in her throat.
Three knocks.
Clear. Deliberate. From the interior of the armoire's mirror.
She stood motionless, her hand still close to the broken padlocks on the floor. Her mind grasped for a rational explanation, but one was not forthcoming.
Not the wind.
Not the creaky pipes.
She felt them.
She heard them.
They resonated not only in the room—but in the very depth of her bones.
"No…" she whispered, retreating. "This isn't real."
But then she saw it.
The glass of the mirror had misted—like a breath blown on the other side. Within that misty ring, there was a shadowy shape. fingers. Five of them, flat from where they'd been pressed from inside.
Elena backed away, bumping into the dresser.
The mirror cleared once more. Empty space.
Just her white face, staring back, wide-eyed and trembling.
And she didn't believe it anymore was just hers.
Ripping her eyes away, she ran downstairs once more—each step groaning in protest, as if the house didn't wish for her to depart the second floor.
She halted in the living room, gasping, heart thudding against her ribcage like a drum.
"I need answers," she growled, pacing.
She glanced back at the journal on the table. Pages riffled by themselves in a sudden draft, and stopped at one that she hadn't previously glanced at.
January 25th
I saw him again. Julian. I'm pretty sure that's his name. He never mentions it outright. But he does remember mine.
He never gets older. His eyes are like looking into the night. And when I stare long enough in the mirror. he stares back.
He tells me I remind him of someone, but he won't say who.
Sometimes I wonder. if he's really stuck.
Or if he's waiting.
Elena's fingers curled tighter on the cover of leather.
"Julian," she said out loud, just to say it.
The room lurched, ever so slightly. Not visibly—but in auras. Like the air itself grew denser in reaction to the name.
And deep within the walls, a thread of sound barely audible, a piano note sounded out. Low. Echoing.
There was no piano in the house.
Later that evening, Elena was curled up on the bed, looking at the locked armoire from the other side of the room.
Only… it wasn't locked now.
The door was open, a little bit. Only a few inches.
And in the mirror—a ripple of movement.
Not her.
Somebody else, observing.