The House We Couldn't Leave

Mina had always believed in control.

Even when she was just ten and her mother vanished during a thunderstorm, Mina had been the one to hold her little brother's hand and say it would be okay. She didn't cry then—not because she wasn't scared, but because someone had to be strong.

Here, in Grinbridge House, that instinct returned like a reflex. She took charge without meaning to. When they first arrived, it was Mina who asked Mr. Calden the questions. Mina who told them not to panic. Mina who whispered, "We'll figure this out."

But now?

Now even she was starting to slip.

The signs were subtle at first.

A conversation she didn't remember having.

A hallway she was sure had one more door.

The morning she called Sofi "Sora," and didn't even realize the mistake until Reya stared at her like she'd just spoken in another language.

But the worst part was what she couldn't forget.

Like Lina.

She remembered Lina's smile. Her questions. Her stubbornness.

And yet—every time she tried to picture her face clearly, the image blurred in her head.

Like a photograph soaked in water.

Worse still: none of the others were talking about it.

Not even Tara.

Mina wanted to scream at them.

Why aren't you mourning her? Why doesn't it hurt more?

But she didn't.

Because that would mean admitting that she couldn't fix it.

And if Mina couldn't fix it, what good was she?

She started making rounds.

Every night, after dinner, she'd walk the hallways. Clockwise. Always the same path.

It gave her a sense of structure. Like she was patrolling a place she had authority over.

She marked corners with bits of paper, tucked into cracks in the wood. A small way to prove time hadn't looped again.

But sometimes, the paper was gone.

Sometimes, it had moved.

And once—once—it was burned.

That was the night she found the mirror.

It was near the abandoned music room—at the end of a hallway that had previously ended in a brick wall.

She had passed that hall a dozen times. It was always a dead end.

But tonight, it kept going.

And at the end: a tall, freestanding mirror framed in black iron, as if waiting for her.

Mina paused.

Looked over her shoulder.

No sound. No draft.

She stepped forward and stared into the glass.

Her own face stared back.

But her reflection looked… off.

Not reversed. Not aged.

Just… wrong.

The mouth was too tense.

The eyes too knowing.

Mina leaned in, and so did the girl in the glass.

Then the reflection blinked—and she didn't.

Mina stepped back.

The reflection stayed still.

Then, very softly, it smiled.

She stumbled away, nearly tripping on her skirt.

When she looked again, the mirror was just a mirror.

Her own terrified face, staring back.

No smile.

No delay.

But her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

She didn't tell the others.

What would she say?

"The mirror moved before I did?"

"My reflection knows something I don't?"

They were already on edge. Aria talking about warped time. Reya muttering about drawings she didn't remember making. Sofi clutching that creepy doll like it whispered to her in the night. Tara walking straighter, quieter, as if pretending not to limp made her invisible.

No. Mina had to be the strong one.

If they couldn't trust the house, at least they should trust her.

Even if she didn't trust herself anymore.

Three days later, she returned to the hall.

The mirror was gone.

The wall was back.

She stood in front of it for a long time.

Then pressed her palm to the cold brick and whispered, "Where did you take her?"

She didn't know if she meant Lina.

Or herself.

At dinner that night, Mr. Calden joined them.

First time in days.

He didn't eat. Just sat at the head of the table, hands folded, smiling faintly.

Sofi flinched every time he turned her way.

Aria refused to look up.

Reya clutched her sketchbook as if it were a shield.

Tara watched him like prey watches the shadow of a predator it remembers too well.

Mina straightened her spine.

"What is this place really?" she asked.

Mr. Calden turned his pale eyes to her.

"It is a house."

"Don't insult us."

His smile didn't change.

"You're strong, Mina. But strength here isn't control. It's endurance."

Her jaw clenched. "Why are you doing this to us?"

"I'm not," he said softly. "The house is."

That night, she dreamed of the mirror.

This time, it wasn't in the hallway.

It was in her room.

At the foot of her bed.

And her reflection whispered:

"You already failed once. How many more times will you pretend you haven't?"

She woke up with blood on her palm.

A shard of glass beneath her pillow.

The mirror was gone.

But her reflection wasn't.