Amira awoke in her bed—drenched in sweat, pulse racing, camera clutched to her chest like a lifeline. Morning light filtered softly through the heavy curtains, golden and hazy. But something was wrong. Her shoes were muddy. Dirt streaked her sheets. The camera's memory card was full.
She scrambled upright and flipped through the images.
Dozens of photos she didn't remember taking. Some in the ballroom. Some in a chapel. Others in strange corridors she hadn't seen before—stone staircases, candlelit halls, mirrors without reflections.
And in every one, the bride.
Sometimes standing behind her. Sometimes closer. In one frame, her hand was resting gently on Amira's shoulder.
Amira dropped the camera, her hands trembling.
A sharp knock made her jump.
Darius entered without waiting, his eyes immediately finding the camera.
"You remember anything from last night?" he asked.
"I—I don't know. I think I was sleepwalking. Or dreaming. But the photos…"
He picked up the camera, scrolled through the shots. His face tightened. "You weren't dreaming. You crossed into the third floor."
"What's on the third floor?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
He looked at her hard. "That's where the estate blurs. Where it becomes what it truly is."
"What does that mean?"
Darius took a breath. "You saw the chapel, didn't you? The faceless paintings."
She nodded.
"Then you've been marked."
"Marked for what?" she demanded.
He hesitated. "This place… it remembers people. It chooses them. The ones who see too much, who ask too many questions—they don't get to leave the same. Some don't leave at all."
Amira backed away, horror creeping up her throat. "You're saying I'm stuck here?"
"Not yet. But the more you let it in—into your mind, into your lens—the tighter its grip becomes."
She pointed at one of the portraits in the photos. "That's me. In the painting room. My face is there now. Why me?"
"Maybe you remind it of someone," he said. "Maybe it's the camera. This house hates silence. It loves images, memory, attention. You're feeding it every time you click the shutter."
Her knees nearly buckled. "What about the others? The photographers before me?"
"One made it out," Darius said after a pause. "Her name was Fiona. But she wasn't the same. Doesn't speak anymore. Lives alone. Vanished off the grid."
A knock on the door cut through the air.
The woman with the clipboard stood outside.
"Miss requests your presence in the garden," she said coldly.
Amira hesitated.
"You should go," Darius warned. "Refusing her is worse than showing up."
With a dry mouth and trembling hands, Amira followed.
This time, the garden looked overgrown—less curated, more wild. Roses bloomed in symmetrical spirals. The stone markers were clearer. She passed one that read: A.O. Her own initials.
The bride waited under a gnarled willow tree, the wind whispering through its skeletal branches.
As Amira approached, the bride extended a delicate hand.
In her palm, she placed a small object.
A mirror.
Cracked.
Amira held it up.
And in its reflection—she didn't see herself.
She saw Fiona.