The silence that followed should have brought relief.
But Asto knew better.
He stood in the ruined corridor, surrounded by ash, by echoes that were no longer just memories.
Something had changed.
He could feel it—like a pressure building in the walls, in his chest, in the air itself. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from the certainty that time had just shifted direction—and he was no longer chasing the truth.
It was chasing him.
He heard it then.
Glass.
Creaking.
Crying.
Somewhere far below, not through distance but depth of something else, a child's sob echoed—not through his ears, but inside his bones.
"Echo," Asto whispered.
He staggered forward, knees buckling, blood pounding in his skull.
But before he could move another step, he saw it.
A mirror.
Shoved between two collapsed filing cabinets, half-buried under rubble—yet perfectly unbroken. Its surface pulsed faintly, like breath behind frost.
And in it—
Two bodies.
The same face.
His.
One stood, eyes wide, soaked in grief.
The other… smiled.
Not cruelly. Not kindly.
Just knowingly.
Asto's stomach turned. "Who... who are you?" he asked, breath shallow.
But the reflection didn't answer.
Instead, Elara'sreflectionappearedbeside it, eyes wide, mouth moving soundlessly. Her scream didn't reach his ears—but her eyes told the story.
She was trying to warn him.
"Asto… I'm sorry. But whatever you do…"
The mirror cracked.
Asto fell to his knees, crawling toward it, desperate.
"What were you trying to say? What, Elara?!"
The mirror split again—fractures like veins racing across its surface.
She pressed her hand to the other side, tears falling.
"For…est… don't—"
The glass shattered.
She was gone.
All that remained was the echoof hervoice, curling into static like a dying signal:
"Never give up, As… Asto…"
And then—another voice.
Not real. Not spoken.
But remembered.
Laura's voice, soft and cruel at once, blooming in his memory like smoke:
"Asto… I gave you something special. Sometimes, you'll see what's about to happen next… but you won'tbeable to stop it."
His blood ran cold.
That gift. That curse.
A glimpse of what might come—without the power to change it.
He looked down at his hands, shaking.
"Then what am I supposed to do?" he whispered.
No one answered.
Only the mirrors bled.
The door creaked behind him.
Cold air slithered across the floor.
Asto didn't turn around.
He stood motionless in the ruined hallway of St. Solace Hospital's west wing, where the dust never settled and the light flickered as though afraid to touch what lingered in the dark.
His fists clenched at his sides. Every step he had taken tonight—the blood, the walls screaming, the hallucinations—had led him here. To the heart of it. To the truth.
A brittle whisper scratched against his ear like fingernails on glass.
"She isn't where you think."
Asto whipped around. Nothing. But something had spoken. Something that wasn't Echo.
His heart thundered—not in fear, but in rage.
"Show yourself!" he roared, voice cracking the silence like lightning. "No more riddles. No more ghosts."
Then, just beyond the broken window, a shadow peeled itself from the wall. Tall. Crooked. Wearing his son's face.
But the smile was wrong. It didn't reach the eyes. There was no innocence in it—only mockery.
Asto staggered back, breath catching in his throat.
"You're not him," he whispered.
The thing tilted its head, still smiling.
"But you believed me long enough, didn't you?" it said, voice mimicking a child, cracking and breaking like a warped recording. "Long enough to keep you from finding the real one."
Asto's eyes burned. His knees buckled for just a second—but he caught himself, fists tightening.
He saw now—the gentle moments, the flickers of his son's laughter he'd clung to in his dreams—none of it was real.
All this time, he'd been chasing a puppet.
A strangled sound tore from his chest—half-sob, half-snarl—and he charged.
The fake Echo stood still, lips curled into a smile as Asto's fist slammed into its jaw.
But it didn't shatter.
It didn't scream.
It only laughed—with his son's voice.
That sound twisted inside Asto like a knife. He stumbled back, gasping, clutching his chest.
"You bastard…" he rasped.
Tears streaked his face now, cutting paths through the stubble of a man who hadn't cried since the funeral.
"Where is he?!" he shouted, voice shaking with fury. "Where is my real son?!"
The puppet's smile faltered.
And then, for a split second—a flicker. A vision.
A child, alive.
Bound in chains of light, suspended in a room of mirrors, buried beneath the ground.
Then it was gone.
The fake Echo staggered, as if wounded by its own slip.
Asto lunged, grabbing it by the collar. "What did you show me? Where is that?"
The creature writhed, face contorting into something monstrous. It spat a single word—"Mother"—and burst into a cloud of black ash.
Asto collapsed to his knees, coughing, trembling. His hands were shaking, wet with tears and dust.
But he had seen it.
He knew now.
His son was alive. Trapped. Hidden.
And Laura's mother had him.
His face twisted—not just in pain now, but in fury. In wrath.
A single candle lit itself at the far end of the hallway.
He turned slowly.
And there she stood.
Laura's mother.
Smiling. Calm. As if she had been waiting all along.
Her voice curled through the dark like silk soaked in venom.
"Finally figured it out, did you?"
Every line of Asto's body screamed tension—hands twitching, jaw clenched, shoulders trembling. He rose slowly to his feet, his breath like fire.
But before he could move, her fingers flicked.
Every light in the corridor went out.
Asto's scream echoed in the darkness.
"Those who chose silence… must remain silent forever," she hissed, her laughter curling through the air like smoke as she vanished into the shadows. Asto stood frozen, heart pounding, pain searing his chest, confusion swirling fast.
She wasn't done.
She had made her move. The next would be crueler.
Far away, in a quiet apartment stained with time, a woman sat at the edge of her bed. The television whispered static. Her name was Nurse Elara Quinn, and she hadn't set foot in St. Solace in twelve years. Not since the screams. Not since the baby.
Her hands trembled as she lifted a chipped teacup to her lips. She didn't drink. Couldn't. Her stomach turned at the thought of the nursery. The woman in black. The infant they never should've touched.
Asto De La's child.
She whispered his name like a prayer. Or a curse.
"Asto… you don't know what they've done to him."
The door creaked open.
She froze.
No one had a key.
"Hello?" she called out, voice cracking.
Silence.
She rose slowly, every joint aching. She still wore her faded blue uniform—habit, or guilt. The name tag had long since fallen away.
Footsteps.
She turned.
No one was there.
The lights flickered once.
And then she saw her.
Laura's mother, cloaked in shadow, face unreadable. Veiled in black that shimmered like oil.
Elara dropped the teacup. It shattered on the floor.
"You shouldn't be here," the nurse whispered, knees buckling.
The woman smiled.
"And yet I am. You still know where he is, don't you?"
"I never told," Elara gasped. "You said he'd die if I spoke. So I didn't. I—"
"Lies," the woman whispered, stepping closer. "You watched. You helped. You handed him over."
"I was tricked!" Elara cried, strength flaring in her voice. "I thought the ritual was to protect him!"
"He is protected," the woman said softly. "From his father."
Elara's eyes widened in horror. "No. No, you don't believe that."
She backed toward the bookshelf. Hidden inside—yellowed files, old seals, and one fading photo of a baby.
Scrawled on its back, trembling words:
"Real Echo is still alive. Below Mirror 7."
The lights blew out.
Elara screamed.
The file burst into flames, curling to ash.
And in the last flicker of firelight—she saw him.
The boy.
Suspended in light. Eyes open. Weeping. Calling her name.
And behind him—his twin.
The copy.
Smiling.
Becoming Asto.
Then darkness.
Chains of glowing white light spiraled gently around the real Echo. He looked twelve now—time passing differently beneath the ground. Hair dark with streaks of silver, violet eyes glassy with tears. No shoes. No warmth. A tunic faded white.
Sigils glowed faintly beneath his skin.
He moved his lips—but no sound came.
Only a breath fogging the mirror between them.
He wasn't restrained.
He was contained.
To keep something out.
Or something in.
He looked directly at her.
Not with hatred. Not with blame.
With hope.
As if she were the first real person he'd seen in years.
Then the puppet returned.
Smiling.
Peeling into Asto's form.
The hallway twisted in Elara's vision.
She ran.
Blood filled her shoes. Smoke clawed her throat. But she wouldn't stop.
She clutched the burned paper to her chest—her last chance at redemption. Her final act.
"I'm coming, Asto," she whispered, coughing blood.
But something moved beside her.
A silver gleam.
Soft footsteps.
A boy's sob.
She stopped.
"Echo?"
There he stood.
Eyes wide. Body trembling.
His hands soaked red—not with his own blood.
"Elara," he whispered.
She reached for him. "It's really you…"
His eyes flicked behind her. Something waking.
Then the crimson strings snapped from the walls, piercing his spine and wrists.
He jolted, mouth open—no sound.
The strings twitched.
He lunged.
They collided.
She stumbled back, arms still reaching for him. Still wanting to say I'm sorry.
But his hands closed around her throat.
He wept.
"I can't stop it," Echo choked. "Please… help me—"
They hit the floor. The paper slipped from her hand.
She looked into his eyes as the strings guided him like a puppet.
"This isn't you…" she mouthed. "I forgive—"
Her neck snapped.
Her eyes stayed open.
Elsewhere, Asto fell to his knees in the dark.
Deep below, the stone trembled.
Pain lanced through his ribs—red strings ripping through him like fire.
He screamed.
Blood spilled from his mouth.
He saw her—Elara—dead. Eyes wide. Her forgiveness forever unspoken.
And Echo.
Hovering.
Chains broken.
Now, the strings weren't holding him.
They were coming from him.
The room stilled.
Chains trembled. Blood dripped slowly from the ceiling above. Asto's hands clawed across the cracked tiles as he dragged himself toward the fractured mirror, gasping, broken, but still moving. His vision swam, but he could see it—Echo.
No… two of them.
One stood in the center of the spiraled light, trembling, eyes wide with grief.
The other stood behind the glass—same face, same body—but smiling, eyes hollow, soaked in blood.
Echo turned his head—slowly.
Two bodies.
One soul?
Or none?
Asto's breath caught.
"Who… who are you?" he rasped, shaking. "Which one of you is…?"
The boy—both boys—tilted their heads.
The reflection rippled.
Elara's lifeless eyes stared through the mirror—but her reflection moved, still alive, mouth wide in a silent scream.
Then, suddenly, she spoke.
Not through lips, but through the shards.
"Asto… I'm sorry… but whatever you do—"
The glass cracked.
Lines split through the mirror like veins, running wild.
Asto crawled faster, reaching toward her, desperate to hear more, nails scraping the floor.
"What did you mean? What do I do?!"
But her voice faltered.
"For… est… don't…"
The mirror shattered.
A scream tore through the void—but not hers.
Only silence remained.
A single shard landed inches from his hand.
And in it, a voice whispered—faint, broken, familiar:
"Only an echo remains… never give up, As…"
Asto reached out—
But the light went out.
And behind him—
A child whispered,
"Dad?"
Far above, in the ashes of Elara's apartment, the lights flickered.
Her body lay still.
But in the another broken mirror, her reflection moved again.
Mouth forming one last word:
"Run." Asto Run
Asto lost it.
The words echoed—familiar, haunting. He had seen them already, carved in silence across the mirror's surface.
Now, he was just rewatching what he already knew.
"I've already seen this," he spat, voice raw. "Now I'm rewatching it like some sick rerun. What kind of joke is this, wife?"
He staggered back, breath ragged, a whisper of a curse slipping from his lips.
"Why show me?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "Why let me see it all… if I'm powerless to stop it, Laura?"
His voice trembled—not with fear, but fury.
And somewhere in the dark, the mirror seemed to answer.
With nothing but silence.
Asto clenched his fists, knuckles white.
The silence pressed in—thick, suffocating.
He took one step forward. The mirror didn't move.
But his reflection did.
It blinked.
Smiled.
And whispered in Laura's voice:
"You were never meant to save him."
Then the glass cracked—
once,
twice—
then shattered inward like a scream too sharp for sound.
Asto stumbled back as a cold wind howled from the mirror's hollow frame.
And there, crawling out from the darkness beyond—
was a second version of him.
Same face. Same eyes.
But no soul behind them.
Just a grin.
And blood on its hands.