Thickening air, heavy with silence,
As the world drifts into slumber's embrace.
Yet she remains—still, waiting, caught
Like a bubble poised to shatter.
A breath away from dissolving,
She bears the likeness of a fragile dream,
A whisper spun from gossamer threads,
Delicate, fleeting, yet unwilling to fade.
The air was thick with silence, yet something stirred. The dim glow of candlelight flickered in protest, casting elongated shadows that wavered against the walls of Claire's chambers. Her breath was steady, but a strange unease curled in her chest.
Then—
A movement. Subtle. Almost imperceptible.
Claire's gaze snapped toward the farthest corner of the room. The space stood empty, yet the very air shimmered as if reality itself had rippled. She sat upright, her fingers curling into the silken fabric of her gown. Her heartbeat pressed against her ribs, a quiet yet persistent drumming.
Did something move?
She swallowed. The logical part of her mind whispered that she was exhausted, frayed from the weight of the evening. And yet, deep down, another voice—one she rarely listened to—urged her to look closer.
She rose from the bed, her bare feet brushing against the cool marble floor. The mirror on the wall remained shattered, jagged pieces scattered across the ground. But among those reflections—one stood still.
Her breath hitched.
The reflection did not mimic her movements. It remained perfectly poised, gazing at her with an unwavering intensity that prickled at her skin.
Claire took a step forward.
The figure in the broken shards stayed, watching.
A whisper of wind curled around her, though the windows were shut. The presence was not threatening, yet it pressed against her, unseen but felt.
"Who are you?" she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
No answer.
Only silence.
A flicker. The figure moved—not as a reflection should, but independently, stepping beyond the constraints of the glass.
Claire froze.
It was no longer within the mirror.
But in the room with her.
A silhouette carved from pale moonlight, featureless, shifting, yet undeniably human.
Claire's breath shallowed.
She should be afraid. Should be. But there was no fear, only a strange, aching curiosity.
The figure did not advance. It only stood, waiting.
Claire's hands clenched at her sides. Is this real?
A part of her whispered that it was an illusion, a trick of exhaustion, but another part—the one that had always known things others did not—believed otherwise.
She took a cautious step closer. The figure did not retreat. Instead, it tilted its head, as if studying her just as she studied it.
Her fingers twitched. An urge. A pull. Something ancient and known within her longed to reach out, to touch what should not be real.
"What are you?" she tried again, her voice steadier this time.
The figure did not speak. But something shifted. A faint glimmer along its outline, like embers glowing in the dark. And then—
A whisper.
Not spoken, not heard, but felt in the marrow of her bones.
A voice that was hers yet not hers.
A whisper that slithered through the cracks of her mind, brushing against forgotten parts of herself.
You already know me.
Claire's pulse pounded. The words were not a command, not a warning, but a simple truth.
A wave of dizziness crashed into her. The room wavered, the air thickening. She stumbled back, her body cold, her thoughts unraveling. The figure did not move, yet she felt it watching, waiting.
For what?
Her lips parted, but no words came. The truth lingered at the edges of her consciousness, just beyond reach.
And then—
Darkness.
Claire's vision wavered. The presence faded. When she blinked again, she was alone. The room was the same, untouched. The broken mirror, the candlelight, the cold marble floor beneath her feet.
Had it been real? Or had she imagined it all?
Her fingers curled, nails pressing against her palm. A sharp sting. She lifted her hand to find a fresh cut—thin, shallow, yet undeniably there.
Proof.
The presence may have vanished, but its echo lingered within her. And deep inside, she knew—whatever it was, whatever she had seen—
It was not over.