They didn't sleep that night.
Aarav and Aisha had found shelter in a half-collapsed barn miles from the church. The air reeked of rot and hay, but it was the only place that didn't breathe beneath their feet. Or so they hoped.
Aarav sat by the broken window, staring at the horizon. Every few minutes, he checked if the church was still visible — but the mist had swallowed it whole. The only sound was the soft creak of the rafters and Aisha's trembling breath behind him.
"Do you think it's over?" she whispered.
Aarav didn't answer. His mind kept replaying the voice:
> You left the mirror open.
He ran his thumb over the shard of glass still in his pocket — the only piece that hadn't shattered when they'd escaped. It reflected nothing. No light, no shadow, no face. Just emptiness.
The lantern flame sputtered, throwing shadows that moved too slow.
"I keep seeing them," Aisha said. "Those faces in the wall. Every time I blink—"
"Stop." Aarav's voice cracked. "Just stop."
But she didn't. She couldn't. "They weren't dead, Aarav. They were praying. What if that was the only thing keeping it asleep?"
Before he could respond, a sound rolled through the dark.
A hollow bell. One ring. Far away.
Aarav's blood went cold.
"There's no church around here," Aisha whispered.
The bell tolled again.
And with it, the barn walls trembled. Dust rained from the beams. The horses that had long died here — skeletons tangled in old harnesses — began to stir, their bones rattling softly like beads in a rosary.
The air grew heavy, the temperature sinking to winter's breath.
Aarav stood, gripping the shard of mirror like a weapon. "Whatever happens," he said, "don't answer it."
"Answer what?"
Then it came — a knock.
Not at the door.
At the mirror shard.
A soft, polite tapping — as if someone on the other side was waiting to be let in.
Aisha screamed and threw the lantern at the floor. Fire licked up the hay instantly. The barn roared with light and smoke, but in the fire's reflection, the shard glowed.
Aarav looked down — and saw his own reflection smiling back.
But it wasn't his smile.
The other Aarav leaned closer in the glass, whispering through the crackle of fire:
> "You can't burn what remembers."
The shard exploded in his hand. He fell backward, blood streaking across his palm.
Aisha grabbed him, coughing through the smoke. They ran, bursting through the door just as the barn collapsed behind them in a tower of flame.
They didn't stop running until the forest swallowed them whole.
When they finally slowed, both were panting, covered in ash. The trees loomed like ancient watchers, their branches tangled into a cathedral of black veins.
Aarav pressed his bleeding hand against his shirt. "We can't keep running."
Aisha nodded weakly. "Then what?"
He looked up at the stars — and realized there were none. Only blackness. Like the sky itself had shut its eyes.
And then he saw it.
Between the trees, faint symbols glowed on the trunks — the same spiral pattern from the church paintings. Every mark pulsed faintly, like a slow heartbeat.
"It's following us," Aisha breathed.
"No," Aarav said quietly. "It's everywhere."
They followed a narrow trail deeper into the woods. The ground softened under their steps — moss, then mud, then something slicker. The smell turned metallic.
Aisha lifted her foot. Her shoe came up red.
Blood.
The soil was soaked in it.
At the end of the path, they reached a clearing. In the center stood a massive wooden cross — but it had been turned upside down, roots coiled around its arms like veins. At its base sat a small wooden box.
Aarav approached slowly. The air hummed.
Inside the box was a diary. Its cover was bound in skin-like leather, the title carved with a blade:
"The Book of the Forgotten."
He opened it.
Every page was filled with desperate handwriting — the same line repeated again and again in dark, wet ink:
> He prayed until God stopped listening.
Suddenly, the ink began to move. The words twisted, rearranged themselves into a new sentence:
> And now He prays to me.
Aisha's hand clamped onto his shoulder. "Aarav… look."
The trees around them were bending — not from wind, but from attention. They leaned toward the clearing, their bark splitting into crude faces, mouths opening soundlessly.
Aarav slammed the diary shut, but the sound didn't stop.
Whispers bled through the cracks in the wood, a hundred voices murmuring his name.
Then one louder than the rest:
> "The mirror is only a door. The prayer is the key."
Aisha turned pale. "We have to destroy that book."
Aarav hesitated — then hurled it into the fire still flickering on the forest floor. The flames devoured it, curling the leather and blistering the pages.
For a moment, silence.
Then a sound like breath — deep, relieved.
The fire went out.
The clearing went dark.
And when Aarav looked down, the ashes of the book had formed words in the dirt:
> Now He knows your names.
A cold wind tore through the forest, howling like laughter.
Aisha grabbed his hand, whispering, "We shouldn't have read it…"
But Aarav couldn't answer. His reflection — faint, impossible — shimmered on the surface of her eyes.
And it smiled.