Amira stared at the cracked mirror, her breath catching in her throat. Fiona's face blinked back at her—haunted eyes, tangled hair, a sorrow carved so deep it felt alive.
But when she lowered the mirror and looked directly at the bride, the woman remained motionless, her porcelain face expressionless beneath the sheer veil.
"I don't understand," Amira whispered. "Why are you showing me this?"
The bride tilted her head slightly, as if weighing the question. Then, slowly, she turned and began walking deeper into the garden.
Amira hesitated only a moment before following. The overgrown path twisted through thick hedges and strange, glowing lilies that hadn't been there the day before. The trees above seemed to whisper in a language just beyond comprehension.
The bride led her to a rusted wrought-iron gate Amira hadn't seen before. Vines coiled tightly around it, but at the bride's presence, they slithered away like snakes retreating from fire.
Beyond the gate: a narrow stone stairwell descending into darkness.
The bride gestured toward it.
Amira stepped back. "You want me to go down there?"
No reply. The bride merely pointed again—then vanished.
Vanished. No footsteps. No sound. She was simply gone, like mist fading under the morning sun.
Amira turned in a slow circle, heart pounding, breath quickening. "Hello?" she called into the stillness. "Darius?"
Only silence answered.
She glanced back toward the estate, but the garden behind her had changed—warped into a thicket of blackened trees, as if the mansion was a memory slipping out of reach.
She was alone.
With trembling hands, she lifted her camera and took a photo of the gate.
The image didn't show the staircase.
Only a blank wall.
Amira stared at the screen. Then the photo flickered… and changed.
A handprint. Pressed on the lens. Bloody.
She dropped the camera, heart thudding, breath ragged. She didn't remember touching blood. There hadn't been any. Had there?
But something in her gut said otherwise.
The gate creaked open on its own.
Drawn by a force she couldn't name, she descended the steps. They wound in tight spirals, lit only by distant, pulsing lanterns that ignited one by one as she passed.
The air grew colder. Damp. And thick with the scent of salt and stone.
Finally, she emerged into a hidden chamber—circular and domed, like an underground temple. Water dripped from the ceiling into a shallow pool in the center. In the water: wedding rings. Hundreds of them. All rusted. All tangled in long black hair.
And etched into the walls—names.
Some she recognized from the stones in the garden.
Some were scratched out violently.
And beneath the largest engraving was a single word:
"REMEMBERED."
Amira stepped closer. Her reflection in the water shimmered and twisted. Not her. Not quite. Her eyes were too dark. Her smile didn't reach her cheeks.
Then, a whisper behind her: "Your turn."
She spun around.
The bride stood there, closer than ever, holding a gown.
A perfect, lace-covered wedding dress.
Amira stumbled back, heart slamming into her ribs.
"I'm not supposed to be here," she said aloud.
The bride's voice came at last. Soft. Hollow. Ageless.
"None of us were."