The hallway was breathing again. Aarav could hear it — the low, damp rhythm of something alive beneath the floorboards. Each breath rose like a tide and fell into silence that felt expectant, as if the house itself was waiting for him to move.
Aisha stood at the top of the stairs, her outline trembling in the flickering light. "Don't go near that door," she said softly. Her voice didn't echo. None of their voices had echoed since they entered.
Aarav's fingers brushed against the wall — it pulsed once, a faint heartbeat. The wallpaper beneath his touch was slick, warm. "It's not a door," he murmured, his words dissolving into the hum that filled the house. "It's an opening."
Behind him, Aisha laughed. Not fully — just a small, broken sound, as if she'd forgotten how to finish the act.
When Aarav turned, she was gone.
Only her voice remained.
> "You shouldn't have followed me here."
He looked around — the staircase, the dimly lit corridor, the mirror at the far end — all twisted slightly, the geometry bending. His reflection stared back at him from every surface, but in each one, Aisha stood beside him. Different versions of her. One with her hair matted with blood. Another with eyes like shards of glass. Another with her face blank — no features at all.
The reflection nearest to him blinked — but Aisha hadn't.
Aarav stumbled backward, clutching the diary. Its pages were fluttering even though there was no wind. The ink moved, dripping downward like tears. A sentence rewrote itself across the page, forming words that shouldn't have existed:
> "She doesn't need to breathe anymore."
He slammed it shut.
Footsteps echoed behind him — light, deliberate. "Aarav," Aisha whispered, voice gentle again. "Why do you keep running from me?"
He froze.
The whisper came from the reflection — not from behind him.
When he turned, the hallway was empty. But in the mirror, Aisha reached out. Her hand pressed against the glass from the inside, fingertips dragging across the surface as if it were water. The reflection fogged. Something inside it exhaled.
Aarav's throat tightened. "You're not her."
> "Then who am I?"
The voice wasn't hers anymore. It was layered — Aisha's tone mixed with something older, something vast and wrong.
The mirror cracked, lines spiderwebbing across it. Each fracture split her face into new shapes — one crying, one smiling, one screaming. The cracks began to bleed, dark liquid oozing out, dripping onto the floor like black ink.
Aarav backed away, but his reflection stayed still.
Then the reflection smiled.
The real Aisha emerged from the shadows behind him. Her eyes were wide, terrified. "Aarav, you need to listen to me," she said. "That thing isn't—"
Before she could finish, the reflection reached out of the glass and grabbed her wrist.
She screamed. The air around them warped, the walls breathing faster, the heartbeat of the house pounding through the floor. Aarav lunged forward, trying to pull her back, but the reflection's grip was impossibly strong.
For a moment, both Aishas — the one screaming and the one inside the mirror — looked at him with the same eyes. The same fear.
> "Aarav," they both said together, "help me."
He froze. Which one?
The reflection's fingers tightened, dragging the real Aisha halfway through the mirror. Her body twisted, half-solid, half-liquid. Aarav grabbed her shoulders and pulled with all his strength.
With a sound like breaking bone, the mirror shattered.
Aarav fell backward, hitting the floor hard. Shards of glass rained down around him. The air stilled.
He looked up. The mirror was gone. So was Aisha.
Only the diary remained, open to a new page. The ink was still wet.
> "You chose wrong."
Aarav's hands trembled. The house was quiet again, too quiet.
Then, from somewhere deep inside the walls, came the faintest sound — a breath.
Followed by a whisper:
> "She still doesn't need to breathe."
And the lights went out.