Chapter 3: Something Beneath
The crack in the mirror had grown overnight.
What started as a single thread of fractured glass had spread like veins — delicate, sprawling, intricate in a way that almost felt intentional. The surface no longer reflected cleanly. It shimmered, like sunlight hitting oil, or like water over something just beneath. Aria stared at it that morning, brushing her fingertips lightly across one of the longer cracks. It felt cold — colder than the air, colder than her skin.
She didn't know why she hadn't thrown the mirror out. It had no real value. She'd found it half - buried in a thrift store bin six months ago and brought it home on a whim. It had hung above her dresser since then, quietly harmless. But something had shifted. Or maybe something had finally woken up.
She couldn't stop staring at it now.
She skipped her morning tea for the first time in months. The kettle stayed cold on the stove. She barely noticed. She stood at the window, watching the wind shake the city's trees. The pane was open — wide open — and she didn't remember opening it. The breeze that drifted in didn't smell like morning. It smelled old. Dusty. Damp.
Not like rain.
Like earth disturbed.
The air carried the faintest static charge, like something was about to break. It made her skin itch. It rustled the corner of a book on her desk — a hardcover she didn't remember buying, didn't remember seeing before last night. The title was stamped in worn, gold lettering:
The Language of Roots
It wasn't in English.
But the title still made sense in her mind, somehow. It just did.
Aria hesitated, then opened it. The inside pages were soft, thick. Handmade paper. Ink pressed deep enough to leave impressions on the back of each sheet. But the first page — the only one with writing — was handwritten in sharp, slanted script.
Things grow where they are called.
Even if they should not.
She closed the book. Firmly.
Outside, the city buzzed — but not with its usual rhythm. The crosswalks blinked slower. Traffic lights seemed to hesitate. Cars passed like ghosts — tinted windows, no eye contact. On the subway, no one spoke. Everyone was on their phones, but no one was scrolling. They were watching things. Listening to headlines too quiet to be heard from across the car.
A teenager's screen glowed in the seat across from her. Aria caught pieces of the audio through his headphones.
"— expansion now covers thirty - one blocks —"
"— second anomaly cluster recorded over east river —"
"— symptoms remain behavioral, not biological —"
"— not contagious, but awareness seems to spread —"
She got off one stop early.
When she reached the bookstore, the lights didn't turn on right away. They flickered — like they were debating it. The overhead fluorescents buzzed in a stuttered rhythm before finally settling into a weak, dim glow.
Inside, a shelf had collapsed. No earthquake, no disturbance, just… down. It lay sprawled across the floor like something that had fallen asleep in the wrong position. Books scattered everywhere. Some had landed spine - up, pages splayed. Others looked like they had been placed, intentionally — arranged in odd clusters.
She stooped to pick them up. Her hand hovered over one — Dreams in the Soil — but when she touched it, she flinched. The cover felt warm. Not sun - warmed. Not accidental. Body - warm.
Aria stood slowly and returned it to the shelf without opening it.
Behind the counter, something else was missing.
The teacup.
Mrs. Yune's teacup. The same one Aria had always set out each morning. It had stayed there out of habit, even though the older woman hadn't returned since last week. But now — it was gone. Just… not there. No cracks. No fragments. No sign it had ever existed at all.
Aria looked behind the register. Checked the tray. Nothing.
She didn't speak. She hadn't spoken much to anyone lately.
Instead, she walked to the back and washed her hands twice.
The day passed slow and quiet. A few regulars drifted through, each more distracted than the last. One woman returned a book she hadn't checked out. Another came in looking for a title that didn't exist. Aria told her she hadn't heard of it. The woman left without a word.
On her walk home, the air felt heavier.
There was something wrong with the sky. Not color — color was normal. But movement. Clouds didn't move like that. They churned without wind. Coiled without pressure. And above the cathedral, birds had gathered again. More this time. Black silhouettes stacked like punctuation marks against the spire's edges. All facing east.
Toward the forest.
Aria didn't look too long. She didn't want to know what they saw.
When she got back to her apartment, the flower had multiplied again.
Now there were four. Crimson blooms where there had only been one two days ago. They sprouted from nothing — no soil, no water. Just curling gently around the edge of her bookshelf, nestled against worn spines. One leaned toward the window. Another toward the mirror.
She moved slowly through the apartment, not wanting to disturb whatever stillness kept things from cracking open.
She stepped into the bathroom, intending to wash her face, maybe re - ground herself.
But when she looked up — she froze.
Her reflection was smiling.
She wasn't.
It was her face, her eyes, her everything — but too bright. Too perfect. The smile didn't match her lips. It stretched wider than it should have. Softer. Confident.
Predatory.
She stared.
The reflection didn't blink.
Then, with a subtle curl of its lips, it mouthed the words:
You're almost ready.
Aria stumbled back so quickly she hit the doorframe.
The room spun.
She didn't scream.
Instead, she sat down.
Right there, on the cold tiles.
She stayed there until the mirror stopped shimmering. Until the smile faded. Until her own reflection returned. Pale. Wide - eyed. Human. Maybe.
She couldn't be sure anymore.
That night, she didn't sleep. She tried.
She curled under her blanket, eyes wide open. The city hummed outside her window. A low, mechanical buzz mixed with distant sirens and the occasional horn. But underneath it all — something else.
A groaning beneath the floorboards.
A shift.
Like something adjusting its weight in the dark. Something massive and slow.
In her room, the flowers had grown again.
Their stems creaked faintly in the stillness. Not like plants. Like joints.
And just before she turned to face the wall, she heard it again — a whisper, soft as silk, breathless as wind against stone:
Soon.
Aria pressed her hand against her mouth and breathed into her palm.
She didn't cry.
She didn't ask what was coming.
She just listened.
And somewhere, she knew:
Whatever it was, it had already started.
And it had her name.