POV: Irena Vale
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The Quiet Afterwards Wasn't Kind
The mirror was whole, but she wasn't.
Lucien made tea.
Theda sat in the window, legs folded like a priestess watching for thunder. Outside, the world realigned itself—trees straightening, sky rippling back into its passive blue, the scent of ash fading from the air.
But inside Irena, something still cracked every time she blinked.
She had won.
She had been chosen.
And yet—
She could feel Mara in her bones, like a second heartbeat.
> "I believe you," she'd said.
And belief was a kind of resurrection.
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Lucien Couldn't Look Her in the Eye
He moved carefully now, like a man afraid of spooking something delicate. His touch lingered longer on the edge of her sleeve than her skin. His lips brushed her temple, not her mouth.
He didn't say it.
But she saw it.
> He missed the version of her he never truly had.
The version Mara had built with lies, soft as snow.
He missed the performance.
He missed Mara-as-Irena.
And she—
She couldn't blame him for that.
---
Theda Spoke When the Shadows Grew Long
"She didn't go far," Theda said, staring at her reflection in the glass again. "She's inside you now. Not metaphorically. Not psychologically."
She tapped the mirror.
"She left her name in the glass. That's why you're still flickering."
Irena stared back at herself. Her eyes were slightly too bright. Her posture, too poised. A few weeks ago, she might have called it healing.
Now she knew better.
"Mara built herself into the memory of me," she said aloud. "And now that memory's rotting in my chest."
Theda smiled, not kindly.
"Welcome to the kingdom of mirrors. We only reflect what's been taken."
---
A New Room in the House
That night, the house added a door.
It hadn't been there before. Even Lucien, for all his distractions, noticed.
A white door. No handle. Just a keyhole that dripped ink.
They didn't open it.
Not at first.
But Irena dreamed of it.
She dreamed of Mara standing behind it, eyes full of grief, lips stitched shut with silver thread.
Mara didn't speak.
She just pressed a hand to the door.
And behind her, Irena could see a hundred versions of herself—dancing, drowning, kissing Lucien under moons that never rose.
When she woke up, her palms were cold and wet with mirror-dust.
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Lucien, At Last, Asked
"Was any of it… her?" he asked the next morning.
They were in the greenhouse. The violets had grown back without being planted. They curled toward Irena like they knew her.
Lucien held her hand.
But softly. Too softly.
Irena didn't answer at first.
Then: "What do you want the answer to be?"
He laughed, but it wasn't happy. "That's the worst thing about mirrors. You can't unknow what you see."
She turned to him. Really turned.
"I think part of you loved her," she said. "Not because she was me—but because she wasn't."
Lucien didn't deny it.
He just squeezed her hand a little harder.
And didn't let go.
---
Theda's Warning
Theda was packing.
Salt. Mirror-dust. Ink-blooded paper.
"I'm not staying," she said without prompting.
"You don't trust me," Irena replied.
"I trust you," Theda said. "I don't trust her."
"But she's gone."
Theda raised one brow.
"Tell me," she asked, "what was Mara's original name?"
Irena froze.
The mirror behind them rippled.
"I don't know."
"Exactly. You still only know her as you. She never gave you another option."
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The Letter Hidden in the Walls
She found it three days later.
In the old room. Under the floorboard where they used to stash letters as girls, playing "witches and oracles."
A single envelope.
Her name in Mara's handwriting. Neat. Practiced. A little bit too much like hers.
Inside:
> I'm not sorry for loving you more than I loved myself.
I am sorry that I didn't know the difference.
> If you ever miss me, open the white door.
> If you ever want to forget me—don't.
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She Opens the Door
She doesn't tell Lucien.
She doesn't call Theda.
The night is quiet. The sky unspooling stars like pearls. The mirror in the hallway hums softly, like a lullaby made of sharp things.
She walks to the white door.
The keyhole is open now.
No lock. No resistance.
It swings inward.
And inside is a single room—impossible in shape, lined with mirrors, all facing inward.
In the center: a chair.
And in the chair: Mara.
Not alive. Not dead.
Just… there.
Eyes open. Mouth silent. A single thread of light stretching from her chest to Irena's.
A tether of memory.
A knot of grief.
A second self.
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Final Scene
Irena steps forward.
One breath. Two.
Then, she kneels.
She takes Mara's hand.
It's cold.
She kisses the knuckles.
And she whispers:
> "I loved you, too."
Then she lets go.
And the tether breaks.
Mara's body exhales.
The mirrors go dark.
And Irena walks out alone.
But this time—
Truly alone.
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