Some truths aren't meant to be remembered. But what if they remember you first?
They say old houses breathe.
That in the dead hours of night, when the world's quiet enough to hear your own heartbeat, they whisper — bones creaking, air moaning through cracked windows, floorboards groaning like old voices trapped beneath your feet.
My grandfather's house didn't whisper.
It watched.
I could feel it when I stepped inside — that heavy silence, like the air had weight. Like something unseen had just stopped moving when I entered, waiting to see what I'd do.
I climbed the attic stairs alone that evening, the storm chewing at the sky outside. Lightning flared through the slats in the roof, illuminating cobwebs and hanging coats like ghosts mid-shiver. Dust thickened the air, dancing in spirals with every breath I took. Each step creaked louder than the last, like I was walking into the mouth of something ancient.
I didn't know why I went up there. My mom had told me to box up the junk for donation, but that wasn't why I came.
It was a feeling — a pull.
Like something was calling me.
The flashlight in my hand flickered once, then steadied. I swept it across a collapsed rocking chair, mold-eaten books, a broken globe split at the equator. Nothing unusual.
Until I saw it.
Tucked beneath a drape of moth-bitten cloth, between two crumbling trunks, was a book.
Not just a book. The book.
It looked… untouched. Like time had skipped over it. Its cover was pitch-black leather, smooth as glass, unscathed by age. And right in the center of the cover — embedded like an eye — was a mirror.
Oval. Flawless. Not even dusty.
And it was cold. I hadn't even touched it yet, but I felt it — the chill sliding over my skin, biting my fingertips.
I reached out, slowly. My reflection flickered to life in the mirror. But something was… wrong.
It wasn't me.
The boy in the mirror had my face — same storm-gray eyes, same scar over the right eyebrow. But his expression didn't match mine. His grin was crooked. His eyes darker, almost… mocking.
He didn't blink when I did.
Didn't breathe.
I pulled my hand away fast, heart hammering in my throat.
The mirror fogged — not from my breath, but from within. It clouded over like frost blooming on glass, and in its center, words appeared:
"Face what you are, and the path will appear."
The attic seemed to grow quieter. Even the storm outside dimmed, like the world was holding its breath.
I shouldn't have opened the book.
But I did.
The pages were filled with spidery, furious handwriting — margins scratched with symbols that hurt to look at too long. There were sketches of landscapes I'd never seen, constellations that didn't match any in the sky, and relics so detailed they felt real.
But the most striking image… was a crown.
Three sharp points.
Three stones.
Aurumglass – The Stone of Self.
Mimicite – The Stone of Mask.
Noctite – The Stone of Shadow.
Each stone had a description etched beside it in a strange ink — one that shimmered faintly, like liquid silver:
"Aurumglass reveals the unchangeable truth of self. The core. The moment you were real."
"Mimicite exposes the lies we live — the masks we wear so we don't shatter."
"Noctite whispers the hidden sins, the buried shadows. The part you fear the most."
At the bottom of the page, scrawled in jagged letters:
"The Crown of Three is the key.
Shadow Valley waits.
Only the mirror knows the door.
Only the moon will bleed."
I didn't sleep that night.
Even when I closed the book, I could still see that crown behind my eyelids — feel the cold of the mirror pulsing in my palm like a second heartbeat.
Something ancient had stirred. Something that didn't want to be forgotten.
By morning, I knew what I had to do.
The train station was where we always met.
Old, broken, forgotten — like most things in this town. The roof had collapsed a decade ago, and ivy strangled the rusting metal beams. But it was ours.
I found Arisa there first, sitting on the ledge with her boots dangling off the side. Her copper hair glinted in the sunlight, tied up in a messy knot. She didn't turn as I approached, just said:
"You've got that look again."
"What look?"
"The one you get when you find something weird and dangerous you're definitely about to drag us into."
I grinned and dropped the book beside her.
That got her attention.
James arrived minutes later, hoodie soaked from the drizzle and earbuds dangling around his neck. "This better be worth the hike," he muttered. "I nearly tripped over a raccoon."
"Shut up and look," Arisa said, flipping through the pages. "This is… insane."
James knelt beside us, eyes widening as he read the words aloud. "Shadow Valley? Crown of Three? Blood moon? This is some ancient myth quest stuff."
I told them everything — the attic, the reflection, the feeling I couldn't shake. And for once, they didn't laugh. They didn't roll their eyes.
They listened.
When I flipped to the map — that hand-sketched trail with winding forest paths and strange landmarks — Arisa tapped her finger on one name:
Reflection's Gate.
"That's near the old chapel," she murmured. "In the woods past Mill Creek."
"Creepy place," James muttered. "People say it's haunted."
"Perfect," I said.
We found it before sundown.
The chapel was more ruin than building now — half-collapsed, with ivy choking the steeple and shattered glass littering the floor like frozen confetti. A heavy hush hung over it, thick and still.
No birds. No wind.
Even the air felt… wrong.
Inside, the wooden pews had rotted into splinters. The altar at the far end had crumbled, and behind it, sunken into the wall, was a mirror frame.
Empty.
Glass shards glittered beneath it like sharp snow.
I bent down and picked up the largest shard. The second my skin touched it, a vision slammed into me.
I saw water.
A still lake in the center of a dark forest. Its surface didn't ripple. Didn't move. Even when wind brushed the trees, the water was frozen — like liquid mirror. And in its reflection, I saw my face — but it wasn't mine anymore.
I dropped the shard, gasping. It hit the stone with a sharp crack.
Arisa picked it up, eyes narrowing. "There's something etched into it," she whispered.
She squinted, then read:
"Stillward Pool lies beyond the forest's hush.
Speak no lies, or it will drown you in silence."
James looked between us, his voice tight. "Okay, this… this just got serious."
Arisa smiled — a rare, razor-sharp kind of smile. "I like serious."
"We're in, then?" I asked.
They didn't hesitate.
But as we stepped outside the chapel, I noticed something in the mud.
Footprints.
Fresh.
Leading into the forest.
And they weren't ours.