A week passed.
The house no longer creaked at night.
Mirrors reflected only what was real.
And Sarah slept without dreaming.
She and Ace didn't talk much about what happened—not because it didn't matter, but because it had marked them both in ways silence understood better than words.
They cleaned the attic. Tore up the basement floor and salted the earth beneath it. Every photo, every object tied to the shadow that had been Sarai, was either burned or buried.
But one thing remained.
Sarah's mirror.
The one in the hallway.
She uncovered it on the seventh morning, heart steady.
Ace watched from the doorway.
The glass was quiet. Still. Empty.
Just her reflection.
A little older. A little stronger.
She didn't flinch when she looked herself in the eyes.
"You're still here," she whispered.
And the woman in the glass nodded.
That night, they sat outside under the porch light. Ace held her hand without speaking. Sarah leaned against him, the silence between them deep and warm.
"You think she'll ever come back?" he asked.
Sarah thought about it.
"Not as a voice. Not like before," she said. "But as a shadow? Maybe. When I'm afraid. When I forget who I am. She'll try."
"And?"
"And I'll remember."
Ace nodded.
The wind picked up. Soft. Cool.
Somewhere in the trees, a nightbird called.
Ace glanced at her. "Do you regret it? Choosing me over her?"
Sarah smiled, tired and sure.
"No," she said. "Because choosing you meant choosing me. Not who I had to be. But who I want to become."
He kissed her knuckles.
"Good," he said. "Because whatever comes next—we face it together."
She looked up at the stars, breathing in the dark.
For the first time, it didn't feel heavy.
It just felt quiet.
And that was enough.