The ruins whispered with memory.Every step Clara took stirred a faint sigh from the dust, as though the stones themselves remembered too much. The once-grand hallways of the Order’s sanctum had collapsed inward, overrun with roots that had forced their way through ancient cracks. Faint veins of light pulsed along the walls — not from torches, but from the broken shards embedded in the stone, flickering with reflections that didn’t match the present moment.Sometimes, Clara caught a glimpse of her younger self walking ahead of her. Sometimes, she saw Michael staring at her from behind — though the real Michael walked beside her.“This place feels wrong,” she murmured.Michael’s eyes scanned the corridor, his hand brushing against the cracked insignia of the Order carved into a fallen archway. “It’s not wrong,” he said quietly. “It’s remembering. The breach’s energy fused the sanctum’s walls with its own echoes. Every reflection here is a piece of the past trapped in time.”Clara’s gaz

The mirror’s heart pulsed around them like a living organism — slow, rhythmic, alive.Each pulse sent waves of silver light rippling across the horizon, distorting everything in its path.The void seemed endless, but not empty.It whispered.Clara could hear the echoes now — thousands of voices, speaking in unison and yet out of sync, as if every version of herself that had ever lived was calling out from behind the glass.Their words overlapped, indistinct, but one truth pressed through the noise:> “Every reflection must return.”Michael kept hold of her hand, his knuckles pale from the strain. The air here was weightless, yet suffocating. Every breath felt stolen from the mirror’s lungs.Jonathan — or the thing wearing his form — stood ahead of them, watching. His expression was unreadable, his once-warm eyes now fractured with shifting silver veins.Clara stepped forward. “You said one of us must take its place,” she said, her voice trembling. “But why? What does that even mean?”

The silence that followed felt heavier than the night itself. Every second stretched thin, trembling under the weight of unspoken fear. The echoes of the confrontation—Jonathan’s last words, the mirror’s violent shatter—still clung to the air like smoke after a fire.Clara sat by the window, knees drawn to her chest, her eyes fixed on the shifting glow of moonlight across the cracked glass. Outside, the storm had passed, leaving behind a world washed clean but eerily still. Even the wind seemed afraid to move. Inside, however, the tension remained—thick, tangible, alive.Michael stood in the center of the room, his breathing shallow. His gaze wandered over the scattered shards of the mirror, each one reflecting a fragment of his face, fractured and incomplete. For a long moment, he couldn’t tell which reflection was truly his.“Michael,” Clara said softly.He didn’t respond. His mind was still locked on that instant—when the reflection had looked at him and spoken, its voice almost hi

The forest was silent — not peaceful, but listening. Each step Michael and Clara took seemed to stir something beneath the ground, something that had been waiting far too long to be disturbed.The coordinates led them east, through the dense line of trees that bordered the old property. The early light was a dull gray, filtered through the heavy fog that refused to lift. Michael’s compass flickered faintly, as though uncertain which way was true.“Are you sure about this?” Clara whispered, glancing over her shoulder.Michael’s eyes stayed fixed on the small holographic map projected by the insignia. “No,” he admitted. “But it’s the only lead we’ve got. If Jonathan left those coordinates, it means he wanted us to find whatever’s there.”Clara frowned. “Or he wanted to warn us away.”The path narrowed, winding through gnarled roots and tangled undergrowth. Every so often, a faint sound echoed in the distance — something between a hum and a sigh. The forest itself seemed alive, pulsing w

The fire had burned to embers. Only the faint orange glow remained, painting the walls in restless, trembling light. Michael hadn’t moved in hours. He stood before the window, his breath fogging the cold glass, his eyes locked on the reflection that stared back. Clara watched from the doorway, wrapped in silence. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Every now and then, the reflection’s head would tilt — slightly, subtly — before Michael followed. Not the other way around. She wanted to call his name, but something held her back — a primal, instinctive fear. As though saying it aloud would invite the reflection to answer instead. The clock ticked once. Then again. Finally, Clara whispered, “Michael?” He turned, slow, mechanical — yet his eyes softened when they found her. “You’re awake.” “I couldn’t sleep.” He smiled faintly. “Neither could I.” He moved toward her, his steps deliberate but slightly uneven, as if some part of him lagged behind the motion. “I was thinking about what