POV: Lucien Moreau
---
There Was Still a Space in the Bed Where She Didn't Sleep
Lucien counted it every night.
Even though Irena had returned—her skin warm, her voice unchanged, her scent like late-summer pears and roses—something in the air around her didn't curl toward him the way it once did.
She touched him, but it felt like she was checking for echoes.
She kissed him, but it felt like an apology.
She smiled, but it didn't reach her shadow.
> Mara was gone.
But part of him had never gotten to say goodbye.
And that part?
It kept dreaming of her.
---
Dreams With Teeth
It began a week after the mirror tether snapped.
Lucien would wake to the sound of humming.
Not Irena's. Not Theda's.
It was a slow, velvet hum — the tune from a forgotten lullaby, sweet and heavy with something that crawled under his skin.
The mirror in the hallway fogged every morning.
Even when no one touched it.
And once, he swore—
> He saw Mara's smile there.
Not twisted. Not malevolent.
Just… waiting.
---
The Stranger Arrives
It was raining when the girl showed up.
The storm came first—hard, sudden, unnatural. Theda muttered something about "mirror pressure" and vanished into the cellar with her bag of salt.
Lucien opened the door himself.
The girl looked no older than twenty. Drenched in silver. Hair like spilled ink. Eyes he couldn't look at for long.
"I'm here for the one who loved the ghost," she said, voice low and familiar in the worst way.
Lucien didn't move.
"I was told he dreams in guilt," she added, tilting her head. "And that he once gave a kiss to someone he never really knew."
Lucien's hand tightened on the doorframe.
"I don't know who you are," he said.
The girl smiled.
> "I'm what she left behind."
---
Irena Didn't Want to See Her
"I won," she said. "She's gone."
Theda only raised one brow.
"You don't win against grief. You bargain with it."
But when Lucien brought the girl to the garden, Irena's breath caught.
Because it wasn't Mara—not really.
The voice was wrong. The posture too stiff. The smile didn't reach the eyes.
But—
> The memory was close enough to ache.
---
The Ghost's Name Is Elowen
The girl called herself Elowen.
She claimed she had "grown in the glass Mara broke."
> "A name needs a body eventually," she said.
"You left a vacancy."
Elowen knew things she shouldn't.
Irena's old secrets. Theda's mirrorcraft. Lucien's poems.
But she didn't weep.
Didn't laugh the way Mara had.
Didn't tilt her head at Lucien the way she used to.
"She's a memory without mercy," Theda warned. "You might think she deserves a chance. But she was never meant to be. She's the consequence of what Mara wanted too badly."
---
Lucien's Guilt Becomes a Door
That night, Lucien walked the halls alone.
He found himself back in the room of mirrors—the one Irena had opened once and locked again.
It was dark now. Silent. Dust-lined.
But he swore he saw a shadow in one of the reflections.
A girl in a red dress.
Mara's favorite.
> She didn't speak.
She just looked at him.
And smiled.
Soft. Kind. Forgiving.
He pressed a hand to the glass.
She vanished.
But he stayed there a long time.
And when he left—
The mirror was still warm.
---
Irena Tries to Forget Her Own Face
She burned every letter.
Shattered the mirror in the bedroom.
Refused to say Mara's name.
But she couldn't erase what it felt like when Lucien looked at her and flinched—not in fear, but in uncertainty.
He wasn't sure if he saw her anymore.
He wasn't sure who he loved.
And sometimes—when Irena spoke too softly, too sweetly—she wasn't sure either.
Because Elowen was outside now.
Wearing her former ghost's longing like a crown.
---
Theda's Confession
They found Theda in the greenhouse the next morning.
She hadn't slept.
"I didn't tell you everything," she said.
No one was surprised.
"There's a Mirror King," she whispered, voice hoarse. "He's older than grief. Older than names. Mara spoke to him once, long ago—before she stole your skin."
Irena stared at her. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Theda said, "the mirrors want her back. The memory wasn't enough. They're rebuilding her. Elowen is just the draft."
Lucien stepped back.
"So what do we do?"
Theda's eyes went glassy.
"We bury the memory before it grows roots."
---
But It's Too Late
That night, every mirror in the house cracked.
Not shattered—cracked.
Just enough to reflect something slightly off.
Lucien saw himself with Mara's eyes.
Irena saw herself crying blood.
Theda saw nothing.
And Elowen?
She stood in the center of it all.
Humming.
Smiling.
Waiting.
---