The cottage by the brook had grown quiet.
Too quiet.
Harun sat alone on the wooden porch, slowly carving a piece of wood with a small knife. The stream beside the house murmured gently, and the evening wind rustled through the trees of the nearby forest.
It should have been peaceful.
But the silence felt heavier these days.
For fifteen years, the cottage had never truly been quiet.
There had always been footsteps.
A boy's voice asking questions.
Careful hands trying to help with chores.
"Grandfather, let me do it."
"Grandfather, the firewood is stacked."
"Grandfather, the river is loud today."
Harun sighed softly.
Now the boy was gone.
Off to the capital.
Training to become a knight.
Harun was proud.
Of course he was proud.
But the cottage felt strangely empty without him.
He looked toward the small path leading into the village.
Con used to walk that path every morning.
Confident.
Calm.
Blindfold fluttering gently in the breeze.
The villagers adored him.
Too much, Harun sometimes thought.
But even he couldn't deny it.
The boy had grown into something remarkable.
Talented.
Kind.
Too perfect.
Harun frowned slightly.
That thought had always bothered him.
Even when Con was small.
Especially when he was small.
His carving knife paused in the wood.
A memory surfaced slowly.
A very old one.
Con had been two years old.
Just a tiny toddler.
Back then, Harun had tried to decorate the cottage a little.
Life had been quiet and lonely after settling in the village, so he had bought a simple mirror from a traveling merchant.
It wasn't expensive.
Just a small polished glass framed with wood.
He had hung it on the cottage wall.
Just for decoration.
Con had seemed fascinated by it.
The toddler would sit in front of the mirror sometimes, quietly touching the surface.
Harun thought nothing of it.
Children liked reflections.
But one night—
Harun had woken suddenly.
Something felt wrong.
The cottage was silent.
Too silent.
He had stepped into the main room and seen something that still made his heart race even now.
Little Con stood before the mirror.
Barefoot.
Half asleep.
And his tiny hand—
Was inside the mirror.
Not touching the glass.
Inside it.
Like the surface was water.
Harun had frozen.
His breath caught in his throat.
For a moment he couldn't move.
The boy looked confused.
His fingers wiggled inside the mirror as if exploring something.
Then Con slowly pulled his hand back out.
The mirror surface rippled gently before becoming solid again.
Harun rushed forward immediately, grabbing the child.
Con blinked sleepily.
"Grandfather?"
Harun didn't answer.
His hands trembled slightly as he stared at the mirror.
A cold realization crept through his mind.
The shard.
The mirror shard.
The thing he had carried all those years ago.
The thing that had turned into this child.
Harun didn't sleep that night.
The next morning—
The mirror was gone.
Harun removed it.
Then every other reflective object in the house.
Anything that could act like a mirror.
He buried the glass far away.
Under a large tree behind the cottage.
And he never spoke of it again.
Harun sighed softly.
That had been thirteen years ago.
Since then, Con had never touched a mirror again.
Because there were none in the cottage.
None in the village.
And the boy himself was blind.
He never needed one.
Harun slowly stood up from the porch.
The evening air had grown cooler.
For a long moment he simply stared toward the forest.
Then he walked toward it.
The old man moved slowly but confidently along the path behind the cottage.
Eventually he reached the large tree.
The same one.
Its roots curled above the earth like old bones.
Harun knelt down beside it.
His hands brushed away some dirt.
He uncovered a small wooden box buried beneath the soil.
Inside—
The mirror.
Still intact.
Harun held it carefully.
For a long moment he simply stared at the glass.
His expression softened slightly.
"Strange thing…"
He muttered quietly.
"I spent fifteen years hiding you."
He returned to the cottage slowly.
Then hung the mirror back on the wall.
Right where it had once been.
The surface reflected the empty room.
The wooden table.
The quiet fireplace.
Harun stared at it thoughtfully.
"…now that the boy's gone."
He sighed.
"…maybe it's alright."
For some reason—
Seeing the mirror there made the cottage feel less empty.
Like a piece of Con had returned home.
Harun chuckled quietly.
"Funny thing."
"Mirrors remind me of that boy more than anything else."
Far away—
Across borders.
Across mountains.
Across kingdoms.
In the powerful nation of Dermouth Kingdom—
A carriage rolled through the palace gates.
Servants immediately rushed forward as the doors opened.
A young woman stepped out.
She wore a dark hooded cloak.
Dust from travel still clung faintly to the fabric.
But the moment she lowered the hood—
The servants bowed deeply.
"Welcome back, Princess."
"Your Highness."
The girl nodded politely.
Her long dark hair fell gently over her shoulders.
Her expression remained calm.
But her eyes held a quiet intensity.
This was Princess Isabelle of Dermouth.
The hooded girl from the capital festival.
The one Con had chased.
She walked calmly through the palace halls as servants greeted her.
Her father's kingdom had spent years searching for something.
Something that had slipped through their hands long ago.
The Divine Mirror.
The legendary artifact said to grant impossible power.
It had once been the obsession of Dermouth's king.
An ambition he had chased until the day he died.
But the search never stopped.
Because now—
It had become Isabelle's mission.
The young princess walked slowly through the palace corridors.
Her fingers tightened slightly against her cloak.
But the reason for her search was not entirely her father's dream.
There was another reason.
A strange one.
Ever since she was little—
Isabelle had the same dream.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Darkness.
A ruined temple.
And in the center—
A mirror.
Silent.
Lonely.
Waiting.
The dream always ended the same way.
A feeling of unbearable sadness.
And a voice she could never quite hear.
Isabelle stopped walking briefly.
Her hand pressed lightly against her chest.
Her heartbeat had quickened again.
"…why?"
She whispered quietly.
Why did that dream follow her?
Why did the mirror feel so important?
And why—
Whenever she thought about it—
Did her heart ache in a way she couldn't explain?
Isabelle lifted her head slowly.
Her eyes burned with quiet determination.
"I'll find you."