It started with the dreams again.
Lyra woke at midnight, breath caught in her throat, the sheets twisted around her like vines. The moon outside was pale and distant, barely cutting through the mist that pressed against her windows.
She could still hear it—that low hum. Not music exactly, but close. A resonance that seemed to come from the walls. From the ground.
She sat up. The mirror across the room was dark.
No reflection. No flicker.
Just black glass.
She stepped closer, heart pounding.
And then—barely visible—writing appeared on the surface. Not drawn with ink. Etched from within.
Three words: "I remember you."
---
By morning, the mirror was just a mirror again. Elias examined it, his jaw tight.
"It's her," Lyra said.
"I thought she was gone."
"I don't think the Hollow ever lets go of anyone completely."
He ran a hand through his hair. "So what do we do?"
Lyra looked toward the garden, where the sapling swayed gently in the mist.
"We listen."
---
They dug further into the Vale archives—scrolls and tomes older than even Elias had seen. One book, bound in moth-eaten velvet, held records of failed rites. Names of those the Hollow had once rejected.
Many were crossed out. One had been burned through the page.
Lyra's fingers lingered there.
"She wasn't the first," she said. "Others were made like her. Torn in half by the rites."
Elias looked grim. "And buried beneath the house."
They glanced toward the floorboards.
"I think something down there is still awake," Lyra whispered.