I Loved Her. Then I Killed Her Dreams

---

The dream did not come like a scream.

It came like silk.

Soft. Whispering. Cold.

It slipped beneath the seams of sleep like a thread through flesh. There was no warning. No jolt. Just a slow unraveling of silence. Like something creeping in through the cracks of a locked door and curling under the blankets with him.

It touched the underside of thought. The places Soren didn't speak of. The cracks he'd taught himself to cover with silence and steel. But dreams, the cruel kind, the *real* kind, didn't knock.

They entered.

And he didn't fall into the dream.

The dream rose up around him.

Like water to a drowning man.

Like a coffin rising around a body that never asked for burial.

He stood in a hallway lit with trembling candlelight. But the flames didn't flicker—they leaned, unnaturally, as if bowing to something unseen. Like they had breath. Like they feared something just outside the light.

Wax bled down the walls in thick red rivers. Too thick. Too vivid. The longer he looked, the less it resembled wax and the more it looked like…

Blood.

Not fresh. Not screaming. But old. Dried in places. Flaked in others. As if someone had tried to wipe it away, but it kept returning. Persistent.

Like memory.

And smell.

The air was thick with it now—an iron tang so sharp it caught in his throat and made it hard to swallow. He could *taste* it.

His eyes watered.

The floor beneath his feet wasn't made of wood, not really. It creaked like bone. It echoed like the inside of a coffin. Like something dead remembering how to moan.

The walls were too close.

They pulsed faintly.

As if they had veins.

As if they were made of something that had once been *alive.*

Shadows followed him—even when he stood still. They slithered in the corners, curling and recoiling like things with breath. Not silent. Not truly. They hissed low—like whispers made from cracked teeth and broken promises.

The air reeked of rosewater and iron.

Sweetness fighting rot.

Perfume that had once been beautiful, once worn by someone trying to feel clean, now clawed through the air like the ghost of something broken. As if the walls remembered the women who wore it—and the nights they couldn't leave.

Somewhere in the distance, behind thin walls, a lullaby played.

A music box melody.

Broken.

Winding.

Faltering.

It sounded like a child had wound it too tightly—and now it ticked with a rage it couldn't contain. The notes spilled out, wrong in their softness, like an apology that came too late. Like a memory that wanted to sound innocent but had already seen too much.

A doll's smile hiding a scream.

Soren's breath fogged the air in front of him. The hallway was growing colder. Not the kind of cold that prickled skin.

The kind that *ached*.

The kind that lived in marrow.

He didn't ask why he was there.

He didn't need to.

Somewhere inside, he already knew.

Somewhere behind the ribs, a memory stirred.

He turned a corner.

And the world changed.

---

---

---

It wasn't a hallway anymore. Not really.

The walls, once upright and waiting, now **melted** into something soft and sorrowed.

The candles dimmed behind him, flickering out one by one like dying stars. And with each extinguished flame, the air thickened. Every step away from the light was a step into something *remembered.*

Something buried.

The walls around him no longer stood still. They **breathed.** Just slightly. A slow inhale. A slower exhale. Like lungs too tired to scream.

Fabric replaced stone.

The floor beneath his feet turned soft—not plush, not velvet, but soft like something *left behind.* Covered in a layer of dust so thick it seemed to **muffle** sound. The petals scattered across it were not fresh. They were dry. Wilted. Forgotten by time and memory alike. Their color faded into a dull rust, like bloodstains on old lace.

Curtains fluttered on either side of the room.

But there was no wind.

They moved anyway.

Each one swayed with an eerie grace, as if stirred by a presence invisible to the eye but unmistakable to the *soul.* Sheer, stained with time, stitched with threads of gold that had long since dulled into coppery scars. They whispered as they moved. Whispered things he couldn't hear—but could *feel.*

Secrets.

Names.

Pleas.

A mirror leaned in the corner, cracked from top to bottom. Its frame was once elegant—gilded in a design that mimicked vines and blooming roses. But now it was dulled with rot, cobwebbed, fractured. The glass inside no longer reflected the present. It shimmered faintly, like it was holding back ghosts behind the pane. Like someone had once screamed into it so hard that their breath **stuck.**

The mirror looked hungry.

And in front of it, in the center of the room, on a rusted bed—

**Sat a girl.**

Her spine curved, her posture resigned. Like a comma. Like a sentence that never finished.

Her back was to him.

Her hair was long, black as dried ink. Not ink from a fresh pen—but the kind that clots. It spilled down her shoulders in matted rivers, disappearing into the folds of her nightgown—white once. Maybe. A lifetime ago. But now it bore the gray of grief. The fabric was torn. Frayed in places where hands had once pulled.

Something about her stillness was *louder* than any scream.

Soren didn't breathe.

Couldn't.

Something in his lungs refused to move, like the air had turned into memory. His mouth opened slightly—just enough to pull in one sharp breath.

He didn't need to see her face.

He already knew.

His bones knew.

"Aurela…" he whispered, voice caught in the cage of his ribs.

The name didn't echo. The room swallowed it whole, like it was a word not meant to be spoken anymore.

The girl didn't turn.

But her voice did.

> "Do you know what this place is?" she asked, soft as silk unraveling. "Do you remember what it *used* to be?"

The sound of her voice wasn't just familiar.

It was *haunting.*

It carried the weight of dreams—dreams stitched with sorrow. It felt like hearing the wind call your name in a voice that died centuries ago.

Soren blinked. The air around his eyes stung—not from tears, but from the cold. From the truth.

He took a slow step forward. Then another. The floor sighed under him like it was tired of being walked on. Like it remembered every footstep ever taken in pain.

"I… I don't know where we are," he said, though it felt like a lie the moment it left his mouth. The lie had no weight. It fell from his tongue like ash.

> "Yes, you do," she replied, her voice low. Almost loving. Almost cruel. "You just buried it. Like I did."

He turned his head slowly, scanning the room again.

And just like that—

It **shifted.**

The curtains thickened into veils.

The veils into bodies.

Figures stood where cloth once did. **Silhouettes.** Paper-thin, half-formed. Women. Girls. Ghosts. Some weeping. Some laughing with no mouths. One coughed—deep, rattling. Another just stared. Still. Watching him.

A muffled sob came from behind the drapes.

Then a giggle, high-pitched, broken. A giggle that started like joy and ended like panic.

The walls stretched.

The ceiling rose.

The room grew with memory. The kind of memory that doesn't belong in one person's head. The kind that belonged to *many.* Like the room was breathing them back into existence—one by one.

The air turned dense. Heavy. Sticky with scent.

Perfume.

Powder.

Sweat.

Tears.

Blood.

Rot.

Soren stumbled a step backward, his shoulder brushing one of the ghost-veils. It *shuddered.* The body within didn't move—but the fabric around her trembled like breath caught in a throat.

And then—**Aurela stood.**

Slow.

Not with drama, but with ache.

As if rising from a bed she never truly left.

She turned.

And her face—

It was hers.

But not.

Not the Aurela who kissed him in the woods. Not the one who floated beside his bed. Not the one who smiled with moonlight in her lashes.

No.

This one… had *lived.* And *died.*

Her eyes were bruised—dark shadows blooming like violets under her lashes. Eyes that looked like they hadn't known sleep in decades. A cut split her bottom lip, dried and bloodless but still gaping like an old wound that refused to forget.

Her wrists—

**Shadowed.**

Bands of red, like rope burns left behind by time. They pulsed faintly—*not with life*, but with *memory.*

But her face wasn't twisted.

It wasn't in agony.

It was calm.

Too calm.

Like someone who had screamed all their screams already and now only had silence left.

Like a ghost who had stopped trying to scream.

> "She brought me here," Aurela said.

Her voice didn't shake.

It didn't have to.

Because it *scarred.*

---

---

---

Soren's heart stopped.

"What…?" he whispered.

The question left him like breath punched from lungs that forgot how to *hope.*

Aurela didn't blink.

> "Yena," she said. Her lips barely moved. "She said she was saving me. She said she found a home for me. Said I'd be safe."

She wasn't crying.

That made it worse.

Soren stared at her. His hands trembled at his sides. The world behind her began to tilt—just slightly. Like the floor had grown uncertain, ashamed of holding their weight.

> "Then she locked the door behind me," Aurela said. "And they came."

The silence cracked.

Like porcelain.

Like teeth.

A sound bloomed beneath the room—low, wet, almost *chewing.* The air changed. The shadows that had been ghostly turned **predatory.** The veiled bodies began to hum. A low sound. No melody. Just a sound that said:

*"We remember."*

The room flickered like a reel of old film left in flame. The walls stuttered between rot and velvet. The ceiling blinked. The petals on the floor curled, blackening.

The corners turned black.

The floor **rippled** like water. Memory-water. Not something you could drown in—but something that would pull you under anyway.

From below—

Screams.

Faint at first. Then rising. Like a choir of the forgotten. The abused. The used.

Soren stumbled backward, his back hitting the broken mirror. It hissed where he touched it, fogging instantly with breath he didn't release. He clutched his chest like the air itself was clawing into his lungs.

His name echoed in his head.

Not the name he used now.

But the one they used when they **sold** him.

And Aurela—

> "I begged," she whispered.

Two words. So small. But they split the room.

"No… Aurela, no—"

> "She said no one would look for me. That I was already dead to the world. So what did it matter?"

Each sentence was a blade—elegant, slow, **true.**

She wasn't weeping. She wasn't shaking. She was *remembering.* And that hurt more than any horror.

The walls peeled.

**Literally.**

Like skin pulled from flesh. Strips of wallpaper curled and cracked away from wood beneath. And the wood wasn't right. It was scorched. Scratched. Like fingernails had once clawed desperately against it.

And beneath that—

**Her.**

Aurela.

But younger.

**A girl. Chained. Frail. Screaming without sound.**

Her arms were flailing.

Her wrists bled.

Her mouth opened in a perfect oval of agony—but nothing came out.

**Soren fell to his knees.**

This wasn't just memory.

It was *witness.*

He could feel her pain like it echoed in his own bones.

Her eyes bled tears. Not red. Not wet. But salt and shadow. The kind that dry before they reach the chin. The kind that leave salt scars down the face.

She was shaking. Her body arched against the chains. Her feet kicked nothing. Her mouth moved like a prayer written in smoke.

And still—no sound.

"You died here…" Soren whispered, horror strangling his voice. "You died here and I… I didn't know…"

He couldn't finish the sentence.

Because he didn't want to know what the rest of it would say.

Aurela turned her gaze to him. But not the girl in chains.

The one **now.**

The one crowned in grief.

And she said—

> "I bled here. Until I forgot what it meant to be alive."

The words were not bitter.

They were history.

And then—

The room **burned.**

No warning. No spark.

Just *eruption.*

Flames **leapt** from the curtains like they'd been waiting for a signal. They danced up the walls with greedy hands. They didn't crackle—they screamed. Low. Ancient. Hungry.

The air turned gold and red. The petals on the ground turned to ash mid-fall.

But the fire didn't **consume** Aurela.

It **crowned** her.

She didn't move to run. She didn't flinch. Her nightgown caught flame—but it didn't burn. It shimmered, glowing orange like silk dipped in sunfire.

The girls behind the curtains began to vanish one by one.

But not in fear.

In **release.**

The shadows around her shrieked—not like people. Not like victims.

Like *sins* being exorcised.

The kind that clung to the walls for decades, screaming in silence, now *burning out.*

> "You weren't the only one who was sold, Soren," Aurela said.

Her voice rose with the fire.

> "You just got out."

The words hit like blades. No softness. No time for denial.

Just truth.

**Truth that blistered.**

The fire behind her became a halo. A cathedral of flame. And Soren couldn't look away.

He wanted to fall. To sob. To scream for what was done to her.

But instead—

He reached.

Tears streaked his face without permission.

He reached with everything in him.

With *guilt.* With *love.* With that desperate ache you feel when you realize someone was suffering all along and you didn't even know to look.

And Aurela—

She reached back.

Her hand glowed with something deeper than fire. Not heat.

But **promise.**

> "I waited for you," she whispered, "even in death."

Their fingers came so close.

So close.

But before they could meet—

—

**He woke.**

---

—

He turned again.

And there it was.

The room of curtains.

Velvet. Red. Heavy. Lined like ribs around a heart. No windows. No light from outside. Just candles. Flickering. Sputtering. Dying.

They hung like bodies.

And they moved—barely. Like breath was weaving through them. Something *else* was in the room. The curtains were reacting. Trembling. Shifting. As if trying to part, as if trying to whisper a name he hadn't remembered in years.

Soren's hands curled into fists at his sides.

His voice caught in his throat. He didn't dare speak. Didn't dare ask what he already knew.

Because behind one of those curtains—just one—was *her.*

Not just *Aurela*.

Not the girl in white.

Not the phantom.

But the version of her that bled. That begged. That screamed until her throat ripped and no one came.

The version before she died.

The version no one saved.

His breath trembled. One step. Then another. The air thickened as he moved closer, like walking through smoke, like walking through memory. It clung to his skin. His clothes. His bones.

He reached for the curtain.

His fingers brushed velvet.

It pulsed.

He stopped.

And then—her voice.

So small.

So *fragile.*

So unlike the Aurela he knew now. Not the ghost bride who whispered prophecies in mirrors. Not the haunting song that stitched itself into his ribs.

This voice… this was a girl.

*"Please don't look,"* she whispered.

The curtain didn't part. But something inside him *did.*

He wanted to obey.

But the silence begged to be broken.

The lies begged to be undone.

He pulled.

And the curtain fell.

There she was.

Not a ghost.

Not a myth.

Not even a corpse.

A girl. Barefoot. Knees pulled to her chest. Hair tangled and wet with something that wasn't water. Her dress was torn, frayed like paper in a storm. Wrists scarred with lashes, neck bruised with fingers, eyes rimmed with red.

And she didn't look at him.

She stared past him.

As if she couldn't see him yet.

As if she was still trapped in a night that never ended.

He sank to his knees.

But she didn't flinch.

Didn't blink.

Didn't speak.

Until—

*"They told me I was a gift."*

Her voice was a thread pulled from a torn throat.

Soren didn't move.

*"She handed me over like a letter."* Aurela's eyes flicked toward the ceiling, like remembering took too much effort. *"Said I was too much trouble. Said I owed her. Said no one else wanted me."*

Soren felt something split in his chest. Not a heart. Something older. Something deeper.

He knew who she meant.

He didn't want to.

But he did.

Yena.

*She sold her.*

The realization wasn't loud. It wasn't a scream.

It was worse.

It was quiet.

Like a knife sliding under skin.

Like betrayal that had no sound.

The room around them exhaled.

The candles flickered. The shadows grew. And behind them—on the far wall—stood a mirror.

Cracked.

Ancient.

Veiled in dust.

And from the corner of his eye—Soren saw it twitch.

Like the glass breathed.

Like it *watched.*

Like it *remembered.*

Aurela's gaze slid toward the mirror. Slowly. Carefully.

*"It started with that,"* she said.

*"She brought them to the mirror first."*

He turned to look.

The mirror showed nothing.

No reflection.

Only *movement*.

Something inside the glass—shifting. Slithering.

Feeding.

*"She made them promise."* Aurela's voice was paper. *"Made them kneel. Made them give something first."*

Blood?

Names?

Pictures?

He didn't know.

He didn't *want* to know.

But Aurela spoke again.

*"She fed it."*

His mouth moved before he could stop it.

*"Fed what?"*

Her voice cracked.

*"The part of the mirror that eats."*

—

---

Darkness. Wetness. The sheets tangled around him like ropes. His chest heaved, drenched in sweat that clung like oil. His breath came in fast shivers—like he'd been drowning in sleep and just broken through the surface.

For a moment, he didn't know *where* he was.

He was still there. Still *with her*. Still in the brothel of flickering candles and haunted curtains.

But the dream had let go.

Only his heartbeat remained—wild, rabid, *panicking.*

And her voice.

It still echoed.

*"She brought them to the mirror first…"*

*"She fed it…"*

He threw off the covers.

He couldn't stay here.

Not tonight.

Not after that.

His body moved on instinct—feet hitting cold floorboards, fingers fumbling through drawers for a shirt that didn't smell like sweat and terror.

Every corner of his room felt wrong now. The shadows too deep. The mirror by the dresser too wide. Too silent.

He covered it with a blanket.

He didn't want to *see.*

Not until he found *her.*

Not the dream version.

Not the memory.

*Her.*

Aurela.

The ghost.

The bride.

The one who bled through timelines and touched him like he was worth saving.

He left without locking the door. Didn't care. The hallway greeted him with emptiness. No sound. No movement. Just that *sensation.*

Like the world was waiting.

And then—

That pull.

A string between ribs. Tugging. Urging. Like something inside him already *knew* where she was.

His steps echoed down the stairwell, down the empty corridors of the abandoned dorm building he called home. The air was heavier outside—monsoon wet, but starless. Even the wind dared not howl tonight.

He walked.

Didn't take his bike.

Didn't call anyone.

Didn't think.

Just moved.

Street after street blurred past. The city was alive, but *not for him*. The lights were on, but the faces were gone. The noise buzzed in the distance like a broken TV channel.

Until—

He reached it.

That place.

*The brothel.*

But not the one from dreams.

Not veiled in velvet and ghosts.

This one stood in the physical world.

Abandoned.

Condemned.

Crumbling brick and wood. The signage was faded, but it was still there. The same symbols. The same front door. The same *feeling.*

His fingers twitched.

And that's when he saw her.

She wasn't glowing.

She wasn't floating.

She wasn't in white.

Aurela stood barefoot on the cracked steps, her hair tied in a messy braid, her clothes simple—a pale dress hugging her figure like mourning. Her hands were clasped in front of her.

But her eyes…

They had no softness tonight.

They were steel.

Soren stopped a few feet away.

Neither of them spoke.

For a moment, it felt like the world *paused*.

Then, Aurela tilted her head.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

"Why did you come?" she asked softly.

Her voice didn't echo like a ghost's.

It cut like a knife.

Soren's throat tightened.

He wanted to say *everything.*

That he saw her. That he remembered. That he *knew.*

But instead, all he said was—

"I dreamed of you."

She didn't flinch.

"Which version?"

He hesitated.

And that was his answer.

Her gaze shifted toward the door behind her.

"Some things shouldn't be remembered," she whispered. "They rot the soul."

Soren took a step forward.

"I want to remember."

Aurela looked at him—really looked.

And for a second, something behind her eyes *cracked*.

Like grief was screaming, just beneath the skin.

"I was seventeen," she said, voice barely above breath. "That was the last time I touched that door."

Soren looked at it too.

It wasn't just wood.

It was a scar.

A landmark in hell.

And somewhere inside, something still waited. Something old. Something cursed.

"You're not alone," he told her.

Aurela's lips parted.

But she didn't smile.

Not tonight.

Instead, she asked—

"Then why do I still feel like I'm buried alive?"

The silence answered.

The house behind her seemed to breathe in that moment—boards creaking, glass shivering, as if it *recognized* them.

As if it *wanted* to speak too.

Soren stepped beside her.

Close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.

Neither of them reached out.

But neither of them moved away.

"I think," he said, "it's time we open the door."

—

---

—

The door creaked.

Not like a movie. Not like a screech.

Just… a sound that had waited too long.

Soren's hand was on the knob, but it was Aurela who pushed it open.

Dust spilled out like breath held too long. The air stank of time—of mildew, rotting wood, and something deeper. Something *human.*

The smell of sorrow baked into walls.

They stepped inside.

One after the other.

No flashlights. No phone lights.

Only what little the moon gave them through broken windows.

The brothel wasn't a ruin—it was a fossil. Every step echoed through memories that hadn't died.

Curtains still hung—ripped, moth-eaten. A shattered chandelier drooped like a dying flower. The floor creaked beneath their weight, but the house didn't protest.

It *welcomed.*

Aurela's steps were measured.

Soren followed, watching the shape of her shoulder blades through the thin fabric of her dress.

She wasn't translucent.

She wasn't floating.

She was *here*.

More here than he was.

"You were locked in here, weren't you?" he asked, voice low.

She didn't answer. Just walked deeper.

They passed a hallway lined with numbered doors.

Soren's eyes flinched toward each one.

Each room once held a girl. A customer. A nightmare. A deal.

"I tried to escape," Aurela whispered. "Once."

Her voice was flat. Matter-of-fact. Like reading someone else's diary.

"They caught me. Tied me to the bedframe in Room 6. Broke a vase over my face when I screamed."

Soren swallowed something sharp.

The hallway narrowed.

Room 6 was ahead.

And the door was open.

Inside, everything was still.

Still as the dead.

A bed sat crooked. The headboard cracked. There was dried blood on the wall.

Maybe hers.

Maybe someone else's.

"I bled for three days before anyone noticed," Aurela continued.

Soren didn't move. Didn't breathe.

"I think that's when I died. Not when they strangled me. Not when they locked me in the closet. That came later. I think I died when I realized I was replaceable."

Silence.

But not from him.

From the house.

The entire brothel seemed to pause with her words.

And then—

The mirror.

It was inside the closet door, half-covered in grime and dust.

But it shimmered.

Soren stepped toward it.

Aurela didn't follow.

She just stared.

And then she said—

"She's here."

Soren's spine stiffened.

"Yena."

He turned.

And saw her.

But not as she once was.

Not the bright-eyed girl who pulled him from the bullies.

Not the quiet companion with gentle lies.

No.

Yena was sitting in a velvet chair by the window.

Frozen.

Her hands rested on her lap. Her eyes were open. Her face was blank.

As if *waiting.*

Like she'd been sitting there for years.

Or seconds.

"I told you," Aurela said quietly. "She's been feeding the mirror."

Soren moved toward her.

But something *shifted.*

Yena's head twitched. Slightly.

But it *twitched.*

And her lips moved.

Barely.

A murmur. A name?

No. A number.

"Thirty-seven."

Soren stopped in his tracks.

"What did she say?" he asked.

Aurela walked forward. Her face was unreadable.

"She's not conscious," she murmured. "The mirror took her. Piece by piece."

Soren's voice came sharper.

"But she was *walking*—saving people. Talking to me."

Aurela shook her head slowly.

"You were never talking to her."

His breath caught.

"Then who?"

Aurela turned to face the mirror.

And in the dusty glass—

They saw it.

Not just their reflections.

But *others.*

Flickering.

Watching.

Bleeding.

Whispering.

And in the middle of them—

Yena.

Bound to the chair.

Her real self.

Locked in.

Feeding it with names, faces, fear.

And now it wanted *Soren* too.

Aurela reached for him, her hand gripping his wrist with shocking strength.

"I won't let it take you," she hissed.

But the mirror *groaned.*

As if laughing.

As if *inviting.*

And behind the glass—

Soren saw something that didn't belong.

Himself.

But not as he was.

A darker version.

Eyes black.

A bloodstained collar.

And standing behind *that* version?

Aurela.

But smiling.

Wearing a veil.

Wearing *white.*

He yanked his gaze away.

The room shook.

Yena's lips moved again.

"Soren…"

Not like before.

More… *real.*

"Please…"

He stepped toward her.

Aurela's grip tightened.

"Don't."

"She's still alive."

"She *chose* this."

"She didn't know what she was choosing!"

The mirror's surface began to ripple.

And then—

*CRACK.*

A spiderweb fracture split the glass from corner to corner.

The air changed.

Something ancient stirred.

And Soren had to decide—

**Save the girl who betrayed him?**

**Or follow the ghost who loved him into war?**

—

---

The door moaned open.

Not creaked.

*Moaned.*

Like it had been sleeping for decades, and was being *ripped awake*.

Dust swirled up like ghost breath, coating the floor, the air, their clothes. But neither Aurela nor Soren flinched. They stepped in together—feet in sync, souls unsure.

The inside smelled like rot and perfume.

Like cheap roses and expensive sin.

Chandeliers hung from the ceiling like skeletons. Velvet curtains had turned to moldy shrouds. The floorboards groaned beneath every step, like the house was remembering who once walked these halls.

Aurela moved like she *knew* the place.

Soren watched her closely—her shoulders tight, her hands trembling at her sides. She didn't speak. Not yet.

They passed faded portraits—women in makeup too bright, men with eyes too hollow.

Ghosts of a business built on exploitation.

Soren's fists clenched.

"This place…" he murmured. "It's still alive."

Aurela nodded. "It never died. It just... went quiet."

She paused at a hallway.

Down it, the light flickered unnaturally.

Like the building was *breathing.*

Soren didn't ask.

He just followed her.

Every step echoed deeper.

Every footfall felt *watched.*

Then—they reached the room.

The *room.*

The one from his dreams.

The one where she had died.

But the bed was gone.

The candles, gone.

There was only a single *chair.*

A metal one.

Bolted to the floor.

And sitting on it—

Was *Yena.*

She didn't look at them.

She didn't even blink.

She just stared forward.

Eyes empty.

Lips slightly parted.

Unmoving.

Breathing.

Alive.

But...

Trapped.

Not physically.

Not by walls or chains.

But by *something else.*

Soren's heart stopped.

"What... is she doing here?" he whispered.

Aurela didn't move.

"She came looking for me."

He looked at her sharply.

"You knew?"

She nodded.

"She entered the brothel two nights ago. Thought she could summon what I buried. I warned her. She didn't listen."

Soren took a shaky step toward Yena.

But then—

*The mirror spoke.*

Not with words.

With *reflections.*

From the far wall, a mirror pulsed with light.

It didn't reflect the room.

It reflected *them.*

But wrong.

It showed Aurela not in a dress, but in chains.

Soren not in his clothes—but shirtless, bruised, eyes wide with horror.

Yena wasn't even there.

Instead, her seat was occupied by a younger version of herself—laughing.

Feeding something to the mirror.

*Pictures.*

*Locks of hair.*

*Bloodied fingernails.*

The image rippled.

Changed.

Now it showed Yena screaming.

Alone.

Begging.

The mirror did not *forgive.*

Soren stepped back.

"What is this?"

Aurela's voice was cold.

"It's justice."

Soren turned to her.

"She deserves to face what she did—but not like *this.*"

Aurela didn't look away.

"She sold me. Sold others. She played protector while feeding names to the thing that *ate them.* She wanted to save herself. She wanted to be the hero of her own story."

Soren's jaw clenched. "So you locked her in?"

"No," Aurela said. "*The mirror* did."

He looked at Yena again.

Still not blinking.

Still not moving.

Just...

Watching.

And suddenly, her lips twitched.

Not a smile.

A flinch.

A crack in her frozen mask.

"Please…" she whispered.

Just once.

Then—silent again.

Soren swallowed hard.

"We need to leave," he said finally.

Aurela turned.

"You still feel sorry for her?"

"I feel sorry for *you.* For me. For all of us who didn't get to choose our pain. But I don't want to become what made us."

Aurela stared at him.

And—for the first time tonight—her eyes softened.

"I don't know if I can forgive," she said quietly.

"You don't have to," Soren whispered. "But you can *walk away.*"

A long pause.

Then, Aurela reached forward—and touched the mirror.

It shimmered.

Shifted.

And when they looked again—

The chair was empty.

Yena was gone.

So was the reflection.

Only the two of them remained.

Soren and Aurela.

Two survivors.

Two ghosts.

Two people no longer haunted—*but haunting back.*

—

They left the brothel in silence.

This time, the door didn't moan.

It shut gently behind them.

As if saying *thank you.*

The sky had started to lighten.

Faint pink bled through the clouds.

Soren looked at Aurela.

And for the first time—

She looked alive.

Not glowing.

Not ethereal.

Just real.

And she smiled.

"You came for me," she said.

He smiled back, the pain still echoing in his bones.

"I'll always come for you."