The mirror didn't flicker. The man didn't vanish. He was still there—watching her, knowing her.
Nyra's breath caught. She spun around.
Nothing.
The room was empty. Shadows stretched across the wooden floor like sleepy ghosts, and the air was too still—as if the walls themselves were waiting.
She turned back to the mirror.
He was still there. Still behind her.
Tall and composed, he stood with the calmness of something that had waited centuries. His hair was dark, a little tousled, like the wind had touched it gently. His skin was pale, almost luminescent against the dim light of the room. But it was his eyes— those storm grey eyes—that held her captive. They weren't cruel.
Just.... Ancient.
And familiar in a way that made her heart ache.
"Who are you?" she asked, not expecting a reply.
The man stepped closer—but only within the glass.
"You don't remember me," he said, voice low and velvet-like, laced with sadness, "But you were the one who left first."
Nyra took a shaky step back. "What are you talking about?"
"You promised you'd return."
His voice trembled— barely. Just enough to show he wasn't entirely stone.
"I don't know you."
His eyes closed for a breath."But I know you, Nyra."
The way he said her name... it was gentle, as if cradling it.
She reached toward the mirror. Her fingertips nearly touched the glass—cold, sharp with magic. A strange pull danced beneath her skin, like the echo of a dream she hadn't finished.
"I'm not dreaming... am I?"
He gave the faintest smile. "You never really woke up."
A sudden gust of wind rushed through the room, though no window was open. The mirror trembled. A hairline crack appeared at its center, streching towards Nyra's reflection like a vein.
The man's figure began to fade.
"No! Wait!"
His eyes locked on hers one last time. "Find me... before the mirror forgets."
And he was gone.
Just her reflection now. And silence.
But the crack remained.