The Unquiet Mirror

November 12, 1871

I shouldn’t have uncovered the mirror.

But curiosity is its own kind of commandment.

The cloth came away with a soft hiss, stirring the dust that had settled over it. For a moment, the glass was only glass — dull, warped slightly from age, catching the flicker of the single candle behind me. My reflection stared back, hollow-eyed and sleepless.

Then the flame bent. The air thickened, as if the house had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale. A shadow passed over the surface — not across it, but within. And behind my reflection, another shape began to form.

A face.

His.

Older, sharper, cut from darkness and lit from beneath by something that wasn’t fire. His eyes were not eyes at all — two hollow sockets, faintly edged in gold, glowing like embers choking on their own ash. The faintest hum filled the room, so low it vibrated in my teeth.

He spoke, though his lips barely moved. I couldn’t hear the words, only feel them forming in the space between thought and breath. My reflection’s mouth shaped them in perfect time. I reached for a scrap of paper and wrote what my trembling hand believed he’d said:

“Lirath ven osten ma’kel — the circle takes and keeps.”

The candle snapped, spilling wax across the table. The glass split with a clean, sharp sound — one line, straight down the middle, dividing my reflection in two. It didn’t shatter. It only cracked… as though it was making room for something else.

The fracture runs directly over my left eye. When I close it, I can still see the faint gold light pulsing behind the glass — steady, patient, breathing.

Waiting.