The mirror wakes at midnight.
It does not scream.
It does not bleed.
It simply opens — a quiet wound in the wall.
Theda is the one who hears it.
She was never afraid of mirrors. She was afraid of what they showed her.
Now she climbs the stairs barefoot, candle in hand, drawn not by fear, but by the strange stillness that settles before change.
When she reaches the east wing, the door is already open.
So is the past.
---
In the glass: Mara.
Not breathing.
Not alive.
But here.
She isn't the girl who destroyed everything.
She isn't the ghost who haunted it.
She is something else now —
Something softer.
Something truer.
She is sitting cross-legged in the reflection, wearing the dress Irlenne once loaned her. The one she spilled wine on and apologized for days later. Her hair is long again. Her lips are unpainted. Her eyes are tired, but not cruel.
Theda does not speak.
The mirror does.
> "This is not a haunting," it says. "This is a confession."
And Mara begins.
---
"I didn't mean to ruin her."
Her voice is hollow and distant —
a song through glass.
> "I wanted to be her. That's the truth.
I wanted to be Irlenne.
The way she lit up a room without trying.
The way Lucien looked at her like she'd rewritten gravity.
I thought if I could break her...
I could become what spilled out."
Theda swallows, rage still raw in her throat.
Mara looks at her — not through her — for the first time.
> "You should hate me.
I deserve it.
I didn't just lie.
I rearranged the truth.
I carved it until it looked like I belonged in it more than she did."
> "But the mirror…"
She glances around at the space she's been trapped in.
"The mirror made me see it all.
Every flicker. Every fracture.
It didn't show me who I wanted to be.
It showed me who I became."
---
Lucien arrives a moment later.
He doesn't flinch when he sees her.
He just stands beside Theda, hands shaking, jaw tight.
Mara offers a half-smile, broken at the edges.
> "Hello, Lucien."
He nods. "Mara."
Silence blooms.
Then Lucien, ever the soft blade, asks:
> "Why are you still here?"
Mara lowers her eyes.
> "Because the story wasn't finished.
Because the mirror remembers what people forget.
Because somewhere in this house, a version of me still believed she could be loved."
---
Irlenne comes last.
Not because she's late —
but because she already knew.
She felt the mirror stir in her chest the moment it opened.
She walks into the east wing wearing a threadbare sweater, her hair down, her eyes steady.
She sees Mara.
Mara sees her.
And neither speaks.
Until Irlenne finally says:
> "Did you ever love me?"
Theda tenses.
Lucien closes his eyes.
But Mara doesn't look away.
> "Yes," she says, voice soft as sleep.
"But not the way you needed.
I loved you like someone trying to steal your shape.
Not hold your heart."
Irlenne breathes.
And then — to everyone's quiet surprise — she kneels before the mirror.
Not in supplication.
But in farewell.
---
> "I forgive you," she says.
Mara's mouth trembles.
> "Why?"
> "Because you're already gone."
The mirror begins to glow.
Not violently.
Just light — soft and golden, like sunrise remembered.
Mara places her hand against the glass.
No one moves.
And then —
She fades.
Not shattered.
Not screaming.
Not erased.
Just…
Released.
---
Later, Theda sits in the window seat.
The mirror is quiet now.
No voice.
No face.
Just a reflection.
She watches the sky lighten through the glass. Watches Alira in the garden below, planting lavender beside the rosemary. Watches Lucien asleep in the chair with charcoal dust on his fingers.
Watches Irlenne curled under the old quilt in the library, dreaming not of loss, but of something like tomorrow.
For the first time in years, Theda feels a strange thing take root in her chest.
Not grief.
Not guilt.
But hope.
It frightens her.
She lets it stay anyway.