When Ethan woke up the next morning, the edges of the dream still clung to him like silk threads. But it hadn't been a dream. The cold bite of the Silver Garden's air, the flicker of Noel's fading eyes, the shimmer of the mirror pool—he remembered it all vividly.
He sat up slowly, glancing at the mirror. It was dark again. Quiet. Ordinary. But he wasn't fooled.
Something had changed inside it.
And something had changed inside him.
Ethan sat cross-legged in front of the mirror, resting his hand gently against the surface. "I know you're listening," he whispered. "Even if you're not here. I'll wait."
School felt even more distant than usual. He couldn't concentrate. People talked, laughed, passed him by—and he barely noticed. All he could think about was what Noel said. About being chosen. About a curse. About betrayal.
He needed answers. And he knew exactly where to look.
That night, Ethan went back to the attic.
The place where he first found the mirror.
The attic was dusty and filled with boxes that hadn't been opened in years. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of old books and forgotten memories. As he dug through the piles, he found it—an old journal tucked beneath a stack of water-damaged letters.
It was his great-aunt's.
He remembered her vaguely. A strange woman who used to talk about spirits, hidden doors, and mirrors that "remembered pain." Everyone had dismissed her as eccentric. But now, Ethan wasn't so sure.
He flipped through the pages, scanning her crooked handwriting. Most of it was nonsense—symbols, dates, poems—but then something caught his eye.
> "The boy in the glass is not just a ghost. He is memory made solid. Time stitched into reflection. If the mirror is ever awakened again, beware the echoes. They remember more than we do."
Ethan shivered.
He ran his fingers over the words. Could his great-aunt have known about Noel?
And what were the echoes?
He didn't have time to think about it. Because as he turned another page, something fell from between the sheets.
A photograph.
Of Noel.
Ethan stared, heart hammering. The same silver-blue eyes. The same pale skin. The same sorrowful expression. He turned it over, breath caught in his throat.
Scrawled on the back: "Thorne, 1886. Still waiting."
Ethan nearly dropped it.
Noel had been trapped in the mirror for over a hundred years?
Suddenly, the mirror downstairs lit up.
Ethan rushed to it, clutching the photograph.
Noel appeared—but something was wrong. The mirror glitched, fragments of silver flickering like static. His image was blurred, fractured.
"Noel?"
Noel's voice was strained. "Ethan, something's happening. The mirror—it's starting to remember. It's showing you pieces of me. Of the past. Of everything that broke."
"What do you mean?"
But Noel didn't answer. The mirror rippled, and then something else appeared beside him.
A shadow.
It didn't look like Noel. It was darker. Taller. Its eyes gleamed with gold instead of blue, and its smile was wrong. Twisted.
Ethan froze. "Who is that?"
Noel turned, alarmed. "That's not me. That's my reflection."
And then, the mirror exploded in light, knocking Ethan backward.
When he opened his eyes, he was alone.
Again.