Alika's POV
***
The wind outside howled like it remembered my name.
I lay awake in the bridal chamber, blanketed not by warmth, but by a growing weight pressing on my chest. The old windows shivered with every gust. Faint whispers rode on the wind, curling into my ears like secrets I was never meant to hear.
The bed beside me was cold.
Raditya had left hours ago—said he needed to speak with his mother downstairs. But something told me he hadn't truly left.
Not him.
Not all of him.
---
I rose, the lace of my nightgown brushing against the worn wooden floor. I didn't feel the chill anymore. Fear has a way of numbing you before it devours you.
The mirror across the room stood taller than me. Its gold frame shimmered like it breathed.
Earlier, it had shown me clearly.
Now, its surface was fogged—clouded with a silvery sheen like frost on a grave.
I stepped closer. Slowly.
When I exhaled, my breath left no mark.
Instead, her face appeared.
Behind my reflection.
A woman in a decayed bridal gown. Her hair was soaked, tangled over her shoulders. Her eyes were hollowed from endless crying.
But she wasn't dead.
Not entirely.
She was... mourning.
I whispered, "Who are you?"
Her mouth moved, but her voice didn't come from the mirror. It came from somewhere inside me.
> "You already know me."
I turned sharply.
No one stood behind me.
But when I looked back—
She was bleeding.
Thick, black blood dripped from her lips, staining her chest. Her eyes—golden like candlelight—stared into mine with unbearable sorrow.
Then she said it.
> "Help me. I am you."
---
I stumbled back, knocking into the bedpost. The lights flickered once—then darkness swallowed the room whole.
The sobbing returned.
Not from the mirror.
From under the bed.
A woman's grief, raw and endless.
I crawled back, trying to reach the door—only to trip.
Something cold gripped my ankle.
A hand. Pale, slender fingers curling into the hem of my gown.
I screamed and kicked free, scrambling to the door, pounding.
"Raditya!" I cried. "Please! Open it!"
No response.
Just the wind.
And a voice behind me.
> "He won't save you. He never does."
I turned.
The mirror glowed faintly in the dark, like a window lit from another world. The woman inside it moved—not like a ghost, but like a prisoner pacing her cage.
She pointed toward the wall.
I followed her gaze—toward a painting.
A young bride in colonial lace. Her eyes held secrets. Her smile… defeat.
The name beneath:
> "Anindya Damar, 1893 – Disappeared on Her Wedding Night."
The voice returned, stronger.
> "The curse feeds on brides. On purity. On memory. But one bride... was never forgotten."
> "You," I whispered. "You're the first."
She shook her head slowly.
> "I was the beginning. But I wasn't the end."
> "Then who is?" I asked.
The mirror flickered.
And then—I saw myself in her dress.
But not the version I knew.
This woman held a dagger in one hand. Her eyes blazed with fury.
The voice inside me whispered:
> "One soul. Split across time. A heart that remembers pain… and another that denies it."
> "You're saying… I'm you?" I asked.
> "No," she replied.
> "You're worse."
---
The door creaked open.
Raditya stood there, his silhouette framed in moonlight.
But this time, I didn't run.
He approached slowly, his face unreadable.
"You screamed," he said softly. "Was it the mirror again?"
"You know what I saw," I replied.
He exhaled.
"I've always known."
Silence stretched between us.
Then, unexpectedly—he stepped forward and took my hand.
His touch was warm now.
Too warm.
Like fire beneath skin.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I whispered.
"I was trying to spare you."
I stared into his eyes.
They weren't glowing now. But something in them... mourned me before I had even died.
"You think you're protecting me," I said.
He said nothing.
Only pulled me closer—close enough that our foreheads touched.
> "You deserve to remember," he whispered. "But if you do… you'll never forgive me."
And in that fragile space—between truth and illusion—I felt it.
Not love.
Not yet.
But recognition.
> "Tell me," I begged.
But he only said, "Sleep now. While you still can."
---
That night, I dreamed.
Of mirrors that bent the sky.
Of blood that sang in my veins.
I stood barefoot in a room of endless white. Dozens of brides passed me—soulless, eyeless, dressed for death. One by one, they walked into a pit of obsidian shadow.
I tried to scream.
Then a hand reached for mine.
I turned—
The mirror woman.
But now… she wore my face.
And her mouth moved with my voice.
> "You didn't start the curse. But you will end it."
> "How?"
> "Before the third night… kill the one you love. Or the curse consumes you."
---
I awoke with a gasp.
Raditya was gone.
A folded note waited beneath the door.
I picked it up.
The handwriting wasn't his.
It was delicate. Slanted. Written in a hand that remembered pain.
Two lines:
> "Don't trust what you see.
Even love can be a curse."
—Anindya
Below it… blood. Dried. Faint. But real.
And the mirror?
It was smiling.
I approached the mirror slowly.
My reflection still stared back—but this time, the expression didn't match how I felt.
In the mirror, I looked… resigned.
My eyes were blank, my lips curled into a faint smile—a smile I never learned. As if the woman in the mirror knew more about how this story would end than I ever would.
I touched the surface.
Cold.
And yet beneath that coldness, I felt... alive.
Suddenly, the floor beneath me vibrated gently. Not like an earthquake. More like something shifting beneath the house.
Footsteps echoed outside. Not just one set—many.
I backed away from the mirror, holding my breath.
Tall shadows passed across the bottom of the door. Human shapes. But they didn't move. They only stood there... still. As if waiting for a signal.
I reached for the doorknob and peeked through the peephole.
No one.
Then—knocking came from inside the wardrobe behind me.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I turned slowly. The old wardrobe loomed like a coffin waiting to be opened.
"Don't open it…" a voice in my mind whispered.
But my body didn't listen.
With trembling fingers, I reached out and pulled the door open.
Empty.
Only the same wedding dress I'd seen before—hanging lifelessly.
But now, there was something new: a white porcelain mask, its hollow eyes staring straight ahead, hanging from the dress's neck.
A message was written beneath it:
> For the 27th bride. Who will see the truth without eyes.
Suddenly, the light in the room flickered on.
Raditya stood in the doorway, like a shadow pulled from a nightmare.
"What did you see?" he asked.
I turned to him, lifting the mask in my hands.
His eyes narrowed. But he didn't look surprised.
"So it's begun," he muttered.
"What do you mean 'it's begun'?" I asked, my voice sharp.
He didn't answer right away. But in his eyes, I saw it—grief so deep it hurt to witness.
"If you've seen her," he said slowly, "that means your time is almost up."
"Time for what?"
He stepped closer. Slowly. Only a breath separated us.
"Time to choose... between love and destruction."
"But… you love me, don't you?" I asked, barely above a whisper.
He didn't answer. Instead, he lifted my hand and gently pressed something into my palm: a small iron key, cold and ancient.
"You'll know when to use it," he said.
Then he turned to leave. But before he crossed the threshold, he whispered:
> "If I change tonight… don't trust anyone. Not even me."
The door closed behind him.
And for the first time, I was truly alone...
with a key in my hand—
and a mask that had started to drip blood from its hollow eyes.