The bus dropped us off at the edge of town.
No signs. No welcome boards. Just heat-warped tar, a blinking lamppost, and the heavy scent of summer dust. Birds chirped too loudly. Trees stood too still. And the houses... they were watching.
I stepped off first, boots crunching on gravel.
Aaryan followed, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He didn't speak.
Not because he didn't want to.
Because he couldn't.
The house had taken our voices once. Now it had returned them—but left a delay. A weight. Like our words had to swim through some unseen layer before they reached the air.
Even breathing here felt slower.
Wrong.
---
We passed the first row of houses—identical brick boxes with blue-tinted windows. Curtains drawn. Lawns trimmed a little too perfectly. They reminded me of the library inside the Nightfall Manor. Clean. Tidy. Lifeless.
"Do you remember this street?" I asked.
Aaryan nodded faintly.
I didn't.
At least, not all of it.
It was my town, yes. My school was here. My mother's studio. That little corner shop where I used to sneak candy as a kid.
But everything looked blurred at the edges. Off by one shade of grey. Familiar, but not comforting.
It was like returning to a dream you used to have when you were ten… only to realize someone had repainted it.
---
When we reached my old house, I froze.
The gate was still there, rusted and crooked.
The mailbox still had our name: "Mishra."
But the door?
Bright red.
It had never been red.
It had always been forest green. My mom hated red. Said it reminded her of stop signs and danger.
Now it looked like the house had been dipped in blood.
I touched the doorknob. Cold.
Too cold.
"Maybe they repainted it," I muttered.
But even as I said it, I didn't believe it.
The house breathed. A slow inhale, like a sigh pressed between bricks.
"Amara," Aaryan said softly, eyes on the upstairs window. "I think something's still wrong."
I followed his gaze.
And there, behind the glass—
A little girl stood.
Wearing my face.
---
I stumbled back. My hands shook.
She wasn't blinking. Just watching.
Then she turned away and disappeared into the dark.
Aaryan caught my elbow. "We're not done," he whispered.
I nodded.
I knew it in my bones.
The house was gone.
But the reflection?
Still lingered.
---
We didn't go in.
Not yet.
Instead, we turned and walked toward the center of town. I needed air. A normal setting. Something familiar to anchor me.
The market was still there. Shops lined up with chipped tiles and faded neon. A man was selling fresh peaches on a cart. Children ran by holding balloons.
But no one looked at us.
Not once.
Not a flicker of recognition.
I used to walk this street every day. I knew half the people here. My favorite librarian. The grumpy man with the ice cream van. The lady who sold jasmine garlands.
None of them looked up.
Not even when I whispered their names.
"Do they not remember us?" Aaryan asked.
I didn't know how to answer.
But then—
Someone did stop.
A boy. Maybe thirteen. Wide-eyed, black hoodie, messy hair.
He looked at us like we were ghosts.
"You came back," he whispered. "They said no one ever does."
I stepped closer. "What do you mean?"
He held out something small—a card. Old. Yellowed. With curled edges and symbols scribbled across the back.
A drawing of a house.
Nightfall Manor.
"You were in that house, weren't you?" he whispered. "You're like me."
My heart skipped.
"Like you?"
He nodded, glanced behind him. "You hear the whispers at night. The dreams. The mirror in your room says things it shouldn't."
Aaryan tensed beside me.
The boy leaned in.
"They're waking up, you know. The mirrors. The others."
I swallowed. "How many are there?"
He held up his hand.
Five fingers.
"No," he whispered, and then pointed to the sky. "Five hundred."
---
That night, we stayed in a motel.
Room 3B.
The lights flickered every few minutes.
The mirror in the bathroom was covered with a towel.
I couldn't sleep.
Neither could Aaryan.
He sat by the window, writing in a journal he didn't remember owning. I lay on the bed, listening to the fan buzz above me.
And then—
At exactly 2:11 AM—
The mirror moved.
Not the towel.
The mirror.
The glass rippled. Not broken, not melting—shifting. Like something underneath had pressed its face against it.
I stood up slowly.
Aaryan joined me, his hand hovering near mine.
We peeled the towel back.
And there—
On the mirror's surface—
Two words had formed.
Not written.
Not scratched.
Breathed.
> "Not over."
---