The book's page was smooth beneath my hand—unnaturally smooth, as though polished stone rather than paper. My reflection glimmered faintly across its surface, warped by ripples in the ink.
The Children huddled at the edge of the lantern's light. They whispered, lips moving silently, eyes shining like wet glass. Their tiny fingers pointed at the page.
And then, together, they mouthed a single word.
Mother.
File V: The Glass Mother
The heading etched itself into the page, jagged and glittering.
She is not born.She is assembled.Every shard of broken mirror remembers a piece of her face.
When enough shards gather, she rises again.And she comes for the missing ones.
A sketch followed—though not one made by human hand. The image looked carved into the page, its edges catching the lantern-light like cut crystal.
A towering figure, faceless, its body fractured into a thousand planes. Every surface reflected something different: a child crying, a man screaming, a dark ocean boiling. The figure's arms stretched outward, and in their palms rested broken pieces of mirror.
Underneath the drawing, fresh words bled through:
If you see your reflection move without you—run.If it speaks—cover your ears.If it shatters—pray you are not within reach.
The Splintering
The lantern flickered.
And in its flame, my reflection rippled.
Not in the lantern's glass—but on the floor, on the shelves, on the spines of books polished by unseen hands. Every surface gleamed faintly, holding my face inside it.
And then, one of them smiled.
I did not.
A crack split the shelf. Another along the floor. The sound rang sharp, piercing, as though the very Archive itself were turning to glass.
Shards burst outward in sprays, freezing midair, hanging like suspended rain. Each one reflected me—but differently.
In one, I was a child, wide-eyed and afraid.In another, I was drowning, bubbles spewing from my mouth.In another still, I was nothing but a hollow shell with black pits where eyes should be.
The shards trembled. And from between them, something stirred.
The Mother Appears
She emerged piece by piece.
A hand first, stretching long and skeletal, every finger a shard of mirror. Then the helm of a face—faceless, yet alive with the thousand reflections that writhed across it. A torso, split down the middle, its halves shifting like sliding glass doors.
She towered over the shelves, impossibly tall. Her voice rang in all directions at once—sharp, echoing, like glass struck by a hammer.
You are broken. You belong to me.
The Children clapped their hands. Some pressed their own faces against the floor, giggling as if trying to merge into their reflections. Others reached up, palms eager, as though they longed for her touch.
The Voices in the Shards
I stumbled backward, shards crunching underfoot. Each fragment I stepped on screamed—not with sound, but with my own voice.
Accusations. Regrets.
You should not have opened the Archive.You should have drowned with the others.You are not real.
My head spun. The reflections began to move independently, their lips opening in silent cries, their arms stretching outward. One by one, they pressed against the surface of the shards, trying to push through.
And the Glass Mother reached down, gathering the pieces to her chest.
Every shard that touched her body fused into her form, making her stronger, clearer, sharper.
Return to me, she said. You are nothing without the rest of you.
The Shattering
The lantern dimmed, its light paling as though swallowed by endless mirrors. My own reflection twisted, splintering into hundreds of selves.
And then one broke free.
It stepped from the surface like a figure slipping through water. Its body was me—but its eyes were hers. Faceless glass eyes, unblinking, endless.
It grinned and lunged.
I swung the lantern, shattering the reflection's body into glittering dust. But the pieces didn't fall—they flew to the Mother, absorbed, strengthening her once more.
Every break feeds me, she whispered. Shatter yourself. Give me your pieces. Complete me.
Her towering form bent low, her head tilting so the shifting glass that was her face loomed inches from mine. For the briefest moment, I saw something else inside her—shadows writhing behind the fractured surface.
Not a Mother. Not a guardian.
Something trapped. Something waiting.
The Escape
The Children pressed closer now, circling me, chanting silently. Their mouths moved in unison: Mother, Mother, Mother.
The shelves trembled. Shards rained down. I raised the lantern high—yet its flame sputtered, shrinking with each reflection that devoured its light.
And then—between the shards, a door appeared.
Not a normal door, not wood or iron, but a jagged gap shaped like a keyhole, pulsing faintly.
A way out.
But as I stumbled toward it, the Mother's voice cracked through the air:
If you leave, you will never be whole.
Her hand swept down, slicing through the shelves like a guillotine. Books burst apart, pages scattering like white snow.
I hurled myself through the jagged door—
And fell.
The Next File
Darkness. Silence.
Then—the slam of a book opening.
The page spread before me once again. The heading already carved across it, gleaming faintly like old bone:
File VI: The Hollow Astronaut.
And from the far shelves, a new sound rose—
A steady, mechanical hiss.The sound of breathing through a suit.