The first thing Mara Kline noticed was that the blood hadn't dried.
It clung to the tile in thick, uneven streaks, still wet enough to catch the harsh white light above. It wasn't fresh, yet it wasn't
old. It was suspended. Wrong.
Mara stood just outside the yellow tape, half-hidden behind a cluster of students who had been too slow to leave and too curious to look away. Their whispers filled the space in low, restless waves, providing the perfect cover. No one noticed how still she was. No one noticed how long she stared.
Except one.
"Hey. You shouldn't be this close."
The officer's voice was firm but controlled. Careful. Mara didn't turn immediately. Her gaze remained fixed on the body sprawled across the bathroom floor.
A girl. Early twenties, same as her. Dark hair spread like an ink stain beneath her head. One arm was bent at an impossible angle; the other stretched toward the sink, fingers frozen mid-reach. The room smelled faintly
metallic, underlying the scent of industrial bleach.
Mara's eyes moved slowly, deliberately, to the mirror. It was cracked, but not shattered.
The first problem.
"You heard me?" The officer was closer now. He stepped beside her but didn't make contact.
Mara finally turned her head just enough to acknowledge him. His expression shifted, a subtle flicker of hesitation he couldn't quite place. He didn't see a grieving friend or a morbid onlooker. He saw something else.
"Step back," he said, quieter this time.
Mara studied him for a heartbeat too long, then she retreated. Just one step. Enough to satisfy the rule; not enough to stop looking.
Turn around.
The voice slipped into her mind, smooth as breath against glass. Mara exhaled softly. "Not now."
"You say something?" the officer asked.
"No."
Her attention shifted back to the scene. The mirror again. The crack wasn't chaotic; it was centred. Precise. Like something had struck it with intent. But the glass hadn't scattered outward, it had collapsed inward.
Her fingers curled at her sides. No, that wasn't right. She had seen this before.
Three nights ago, the vision had come without warning. She had been lying in bed, staring at nothing, the world quiet in that fragile way it only ever was before something broke. Then, reality had loosened its grip.
She had been here. Same bathroom. Same girl. But the girl had been alive, breathing, her knuckles white as she gripped the sink. Mara had watched from the mirror, not as a reflection, but as a witness. The girl had
lifted her head, her eyes locking onto something behind her. Then came the
fear.
In the vision, the mirror had shattered outward. It was violent. A physical force had thrown the girl back.
Mara blinked, and the present reassembled itself. Quiet. Controlled. Wrong.
The mirror wasn't shattered, and the girl hadn't been thrown. She was merely... placed.
"She fell?" Mara asked.
The officer glanced at her. "We're not making conclusions
yet."
"She didn't."
The officer's eyes narrowed. "And how would you know that?"
Mara didn't answer. She stepped forward again, just a fraction. The officer tensed, not with aggression, but with a sudden,
instinctual unease.
"Step back," he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. He was watching her properly now.
Mara tilted her head. "She didn't fall. Look at her arm."
He hesitated for a split second, his eyes involuntarily flicking to the body. That was all she needed.
"The angle is wrong," she continued quietly. "If she fell, the impact would have lateral displacement. This is vertical."
The officer's jaw tightened. "You a med student?"
"No."
"Then maybe you should let us do our job."
Mara's lips curved into a faint, cold line. "I am."
Look again.
The voice was sharper now. Mara's gaze lifted to the window. It was closed, the latch untouched. No sign of forced entry. Her chest tightened. That detail hadn't changed, but everything else had.
You see it. It wasn't a question.
Mara swallowed. "No," she whispered. "I don't."
Because she didn't—not fully. Not this time.
The hallway outside shifted with movement as more authority arrived. Mara stepped back fully now, and this time, no one stopped her. The officer watched her go, his brow furrowed as if trying to solve a puzzle that
didn't have all its pieces.
The hallway buzzed with the static of student gossip. Mara moved through the crowd without touching anyone. She felt the way people leaned away from her, the way conversations dipped when she passed. She was used to being the cold spot in the room.
You're thinking too slowly.
"I know," she murmured.
Then what is it?
Mara stopped. A reflection caught her eye in the glass panel of a closed classroom door. She turned slightly. Her reflection stared back, still, composed, unchanged.
Except it blinked a fraction of a second too late.
Mara didn't flinch, but something inside her stilled completely.
Don't look at it for too long.
She tore her gaze away. Students hurried past, reacting to the tragedy unfolding behind them, but Mara remained anchored in the discrepancy.
Mirror. Position. Impact.
"She didn't die like that," Mara said softly.
No, the voice corrected. Not 'didn't'.
A beat. Then, a realisation settled into her mind, cold and precise.
Mara turned back toward the bathroom. The hallway seemed longer now, the air thinner, as if the world had shifted slightly out of alignment.
"She died more than once," Mara said.
The words felt heavy and certain. And somewhere, not in the hall, not in the room, but close enough to touch, something noticed her.