The silence in the parlor was thick enough to drown in. Candles burned low on the mantel, their flicker reflecting off tarnished silver and empty teacups. No one spoke. No one dared.
Aria stared at her trembling hands. She could still feel the echo of what happened in the west-wing library—the books screaming her sister's name. TARA TARA TARA scrawled across every surface. She had never seen anything so determined. Or so wrong.
Tara sat beside Sofi, quiet. Sofi squeezed her hand, giving her that comforting smile all but ruined by fear. But Tara's eyes still traced every curved wall in the room. The house still watched her.
Mina finally broke the silence. "We need rules. If we're naming... whatever it is, we should do it on purpose. Together."
Lina grabbed a napkin from the table. She wrote Her Name at the top, underlining it four times. The paper trembled in her hand. No one looked at it.
"I still don't know," she whispered.
--
After dinner, Mina led the group to the hallway with the most mirrors—four full-length frames stained silver from age. They stood facing each other, so each reflection bounced between rooms infinitely, like a tunnel of repeating selves.
Aria shivered. "This place makes me want to break mirrors."
Reya shook her head. "Or break names."
Sofi started, raising her hand. "We could write a name down. Like a letter. And if it doesn't vanish, maybe it's safe."
Mina considered it. "But whose name?"
Silence.
Tara finally spoke: "If... if we only have six chairs. Six names. One of us... belongs to the house. Maybe the house gave her that. Maybe it... saved her."
Everyone looked at Tara.
Aria swallowed. "You think you belong to it?"
Tara didn't answer.
--
They agreed to test one name.
Mina wrote ARIN — a name none of them knew before. Arin wasn't a girl they'd met or someone they'd heard of. It felt foreign. Maybe that was the point.
She folded the napkin neatly and placed it under the silver tray in front of them. Aria recited the name aloud, voice barely above a whisper.
"Arin."
Nothing happened. The name stayed. The spill of candles didn't flicker. The mirrors didn't ripple.
Silent.
They exhaled.
Aria looked at Tara. "Your turn. But be careful." Her voice cracked.
Tara nodded, trembling.
She wrote IMRA— backwards Rami, the name her brother used to call her when he tumbled down our stairs at home.
Tara looked down at the napkin. Her name — reversed — but recognizable to her. She looked at Mina.
"Say it," she whispered.
Mina cleared her throat. "Imra."
Time paused.
One of the candles hissed like a breath. The air condensed. Tiny black specks drifted toward the napkin. They circled it, then all at once—rose into the air and vanished.
The name remained.
But the air didn't.
A distant whisper flicked behind a door: "Her name is safe."
--
That night, they tried to sleep. But dreams came instead.
Mina dreamed she was writing her name—MINA—with jagged letters on the floor. The walls closed in. The letters glowed red.
She woke screaming.
Aria dreamed of the gallery — the seventh girl's face morphing into Tara's — and waking in the garden.
She woke in a garden she didn't recognize.
And Tara... Tara dreamed of being alone. No crutches. No girls. Only clouds of smoke. And voices. Tara. Imra. Imra. Tara.
When they regrouped in the study, they looked broken. Wounded. They didn't need words to know the house had reached into their minds.
Reya cleared her throat. She had her map again — marked with new corridors. New doors. Directionless stairs.
"There's a bathroom on the third floor," she said. "I haven't seen it before. But it's on the map now. I think... I think we should go there. See what it shows us."
--
The door was white and chipped — the kind that itched at your eyes even under a candle's glow. They stood outside for a moment, bolts of electricity charging the air around them.
Aria reached out. "On three. One two three."
They walked in.
Inside was a mirror — small, with intricate lines etched on its frame. It reflected all six of them.
But behind them stood a seventh figure—taller than the girls, shrouded in black. No face. Just a presence.
They turned. Nothing.
The mirror stayed.
--
Tara stepped forward. The black figure loomed behind her reflection.
"Who are you?" she whispered. Her voice echoed.
The seventh figure raised a hand. A finger traced a single letter into the condensation on the mirror. It faded, then became permanent.
M.
Mina stepped forward. "It's your initial."
The figure pressed an invisible finger to its lips. Then it smiled.
--
Suddenly the lights went out.
They didn't flicker. They just were gone.
The figure in the mirror touched its hand to the glass. It rippled. The glass cracked.
Aria screamed.
Mina raced forward. The glass shattered. Neither reflection nor girl stepped out.
But the presence remained.
They fled.
Back in the parlor, breathless, they burned the mirror shards. They set up chairs around the hearth.
No candles. No lights. They didn't want more mirrors.
Mina reached into her pocket.
"What is it?" Lina asked.
"Mr. Calden's key."
Aria's eyes widened. "Where did you get that?"
Mina held up a small bronze key — old enough to rust if it touched iron. "When the mirror shattered, I saw him — in reflection. Tapping on the other side of the mirror. He dropped it."
They passed it around.
"Maybe it opens the bathroom," Reya offered.
Or maybe opens something worse.
They slept again. But this time with blankets pulled tight and memories locked away.
Breakfast was quiet.
Mina left the key next to her bowl.
Tara stared at it all morning. Every time someone looked at her, she couldn't tell if they saw the girl or the house.