The sun hadn't fully risen.
Just a thin bruise of light on the horizon, like the world was waking up reluctantly. My fingers closed around the cold key in my pocket as I walked up the grand stairway—every step creaking just loud enough to feel like a warning.
Third floor.
The air was different here. Thicker. Dustier. Less lived in, like time had been paused on purpose.
I found the door easily.
It was old wood, warped at the edges, with a keyhole shaped like a teardrop. Carved into the surface was the same symbol from the key: an open eye.
The second the key slid in, the whole hallway exhaled.
Click.
I opened the door.
And stepped into my sister's memory.
—
The room wasn't dusty like I expected. It was… frozen. Like someone had left mid-movement and time just decided to stay still.
A vanity with an open lipstick.
A hairbrush with strands of Anaya's long hair.
A half-written letter on the desk.
The bedsheets were wrinkled.
There was music playing—her playlist. Lo-fi instrumental, soft and familiar. One of our shared favorites.
I took a slow step in.
Suddenly, the lights dimmed. Then flickered. Then…
Anaya walked into the room.
She didn't see me. Didn't even glance. She moved like I wasn't there—because I wasn't. Not really.
I was watching a memory.
She shut the door behind her, face pale, eyes puffy. Her mouth was trembling. She opened a drawer, pulled out her journal, and whispered:
> "He's lying. He's lying, he's lying—"
She flipped pages, fast. Then stopped on one filled with frantic scribbles.
> "Mirror doesn't show truth. It shows guilt."
"He says I'm the key. But I think I'm the price."
"If Alya ever finds this, I'm sorry. I tried to love him. But the mirror… wants her."
I backed away, my stomach twisting. My nails dug into my palm.
The mirror wants me?
Just then, the door opened in her memory—and he walked in.
Aaryan.
Not the one I knew. Younger, colder. He looked at her with something unreadable—like a mix of regret and threat.
"You read the wrong page," he said quietly.
Anaya froze.
"You said I was the one," she whispered.
He said nothing.
"You said if I came willingly, you'd protect me."
"I lied," Aaryan said.
Just like that.
Then he took a step toward her, slow and deliberate.
She didn't run. She didn't scream. She just sat down on the bed and looked at him like she already knew what would happen next.
"I won't do it," she said. "I won't be the host."
He tilted his head. "You already are."
That's when the mirror behind her began to ripple.
I screamed.
"STOP!"
But of course—no one heard. This was already written.
A shape emerged from the mirror. Tall, feminine, eerily graceful. Mirror-Ana. She looked at Anaya with that same too-wide smile and said:
> "You should've let her come instead."
Then she dragged her into the mirror.
It didn't shatter.
It swallowed her.
—
I collapsed to the floor.
The vision faded. The room aged in front of me—dust settling on every surface in real time. The lipstick crumbled. The music stopped. The bed sagged like no one had slept there in years.
My sister was gone.
Aaryan let it happen.
---
When I got back to my bedroom, I found Aaryan already waiting.
He didn't look surprised.
"You went in," he said.
"You watched her get taken," I snapped.
He didn't flinch. "Because she wasn't the one."
I laughed. It was hollow. "You're sick."
"I'm cursed."
"That's not an excuse."
He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw something real in him.
Not coldness. Not arrogance.
Shame.
"You were always supposed to be the bride," he said softly. "Not her."
"Why?" I whispered. "Why me?"
"Because you weren't afraid of the dark."
I didn't speak.
Not when he stepped closer.
Not when he gently pressed a folded note into my hand and walked away.
After he left, I opened it.
One line.
> "On the 7th night, it chooses."
Then beneath it, scrawled in familiar handwriting:
> "If you see her again, don't follow her. It's not me anymore." — Anaya