The new morning arrived, but Ilda's fever still lingered. She looked into the small mirror by her bed. A pale, tired face stared back at her—but that was not what made her freeze.
Behind her, in the reflection, stood a woman.
She wore ancient clothing, her long dark hair flowing down to her waist. Her face was veiled by a mist-like blur, yet her eyes… her eyes were filled with sorrow.
"Who…" Ilda's voice trembled. She quickly turned around.
Nothing. Just the empty room.
But when she looked back at the mirror, the figure was still there—and this time, the woman's lips moved slowly, silently forming her name.
"…Ilda…"
The whisper echoed in her mind, forcing her to stumble. A burning pain flared on the strange mark upon her arm, as if fire had awakened within her veins.
At that very moment, someone knocked on her door.
"Ilda! Open up—are you alright?" her friend's voice called out.
She clenched her fists and stood, though her body trembled. Deep inside, she knew: from the instant her eyes met the shadow in the mirror, her life would never be the same again.