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Chapter 3 - Chapter 3: Crimson Dreams

"Some mirrors don't reflect your face. They reflect your fate."

***

It began with velvet and silence.

Clara found herself at the top of a marble staircase, barefoot and breathless. She wore a gown she'd never seen before, scarlet silk clinging to her like a second skin, impossibly soft, rippling like blood under the candlelight. The heavy, overripe scent of roses, steeped in something darker, filled her lungs.

Somewhere below, music played. It wasn't coming from speakers, but felt ancient, Baroque and haunting. A harpsichord, played by invisible hands.

She looked down.

A grand ballroom unfolded beneath her, its black floor gleaming like obsidian. Dozens of masked guests danced as if trapped in molasses, their movements strange and beautiful. Candles floated above them, suspended in mid-air like spirits refusing to rest.

Every guest wore a mask.

Except one.

A woman stood at the far end of the room, unmoving and unmasked. She had Clara's face, but older, sharper, more regal. Her eyes held something Clara couldn't name—a memory, a warning, or perhaps a dare.

The woman raised a glass toward Clara, her lips forming words Clara couldn't hear.

Clara tried to move down the steps, but the marble twisted, softening beneath her like melting wax. Her breath hitched.

Then, from the shadows beside the unmasked woman, a man emerged.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. His coat was deep black velvet, trimmed with blood-red silk. Clara's breath caught in her throat.

Gustav.

But not the one she knew—or thought she knew. This Gustav didn't belong in the waking world. His eyes were dark and endless, like stars long dead. And when he turned to look directly at her—

She woke up.

Her breath came in gasps, sheets tangled around her legs. The lamp beside her bed buzzed faintly, casting a dim orange glow across her room.

And her mirror?

It shimmered.

Just for a second. Just enough to make her question her own sanity.

She stared at it, heart pounding. No one was there. Just her own reflection—pale, wide-eyed, unsettled.

But she couldn't shake the feeling that something had been standing behind the glass moments before.

Watching her.

Morning came heavy, like fog behind her eyes.

Clara walked through campus in a daze, headphones in but no music playing. Every reflection made her flinch—windows, puddles, the sheen of her phone screen. Even her own shadow seemed a little off.

Her first lecture of the day was one she hadn't been looking forward to: Art & Myth in European History. The syllabus had promised long talks about tapestries and ancient symbolism—dry, forgettable.

Until the man walked in.

"Good morning," he said, placing his leather briefcase on the desk. "I'm Professor Gustav Alencar. I'll be taking over this class for the rest of the semester."

Clara froze.

It was him.

Not exactly the dream-Gustav—this version was younger, with kinder edges. But the eyes. Those eyes.

When he glanced at her, something inside her dropped, like she was being seen… or remembered.

"Our first topic," he continued, unfazed, "will be the iconography of Countess Elizabeth Bathory."

He clicked the projector. A grainy etching appeared on the screen: a noblewoman in an ornate gown, pouring a thick, dark liquid into a chalice.

Clara stopped breathing.

It was her.

***

She waited after class, though she didn't know why.

Maybe she wanted answers. Maybe she wanted proof she wasn't losing her mind. Gustav packed his papers with quiet, deliberate movements.

"Miss Bellamy," he said, without turning. "Is that right?"

Clara hesitated. "Yes… but how did you—?"

He glanced over his shoulder. "Your essay on occult symbols in feminine myth. I read it last week. Very sharp."

Her mouth opened, then closed.

She hadn't turned that essay in yet.

He offered a faint smile. "Some things arrive before they're sent. Time… plays tricks."

Before she could ask more, he returned to his notes. She stepped closer.

"Professor… do you believe in reincarnation?"

This time, he paused.

"I believe that what's broken in one life tries to find its missing half in another," he said. "Sometimes through dreams. Sometimes through mirrors."

Clara's fingers curled into her palm. "What if the mirror shows you someone you've never met, but you feel like… like you've always known them?"

He looked up. His gaze held hers—deep, unblinking.

"Then maybe," he said softly, "your soul is remembering what your mind forgot."

She swallowed. "Is that what Bathory believed?"

He chuckled, low and unreadable. "Bathory believed many things. That blood could preserve youth. That desire was divine. Some say she was a monster. Others say she was framed."

Then he closed his briefcase with a final click.

"But in the oldest stories… she never really died."

He looked back at her one last time.

"Be careful, Miss Bellamy. What you let through the glass may not want to leave."

***

That night, Clara couldn't bring herself to look in the mirror.

She threw a scarf over it and tried to sleep. But something in her bones was buzzing—low and steady, like distant thunder.

At exactly 3:13 a.m., she woke.

The scarf lay crumpled on the floor. The mirror was glowing. And within it, she saw him.

Gustav.

But his face was wrong. Too symmetrical. His smile too wide. And behind him, flickering candlelight painted stone walls Clara had only ever seen in dreams.

Then came the voice—not through her ears, but through her.

"Clara."

She stumbled backward, hand flying to her mouth.

The mirror shimmered. The image changed.

Now a woman stood there. Alone. A crimson gown clung to her frame. Her eyes were black as coal, her mouth soft with sorrow.

She had Clara's face.

"Help me," the woman mouthed.

Clara stepped forward, breath shallow.

She reached out, her fingers grazing the cool glass.

And for a moment—it wasn't glass at all.

It pulled.

As if someone on the other side had taken her hand.

Just then—a knock.

"Clara?" her flatmate, Naomi, called from the other side of the door. "You okay? I thought I heard something."

Clara blinked. The mirror was a mirror again.

She exhaled slowly. "Yeah," she called. "Just… bad dream."

But as she lay back down, her pulse racing, her hands trembling…

One thought refused to leave her:

This wasn't a dream.

Not anymore.

***

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