The House We Couldn't Leave

(Read the chapter in Aria's POV)

The mirror in her room had always been silent.

Where the others shimmered or flickered or blinked, hers stayed blank. Honest.

Or so she believed.

But tonight, she saw it.

A sliver.

Not a crack.

A seam.

At first, she thought her mind was playing tricks again.

The same way her legs felt different every few days. The same way her reflection sometimes looked older than she was.

But when she reached out and pressed her fingers against the cold glass, the seam gave a little.

Shifted.

Just enough to feel real.

And behind the mirror, she saw the outline of a brick.

Not part of the original wall.

A single brick.

Slightly thinner than the rest.

She fetched the letter opener from her desk drawer.

And headed towards the wall.

The brick came loose with a dry groan.

Dust spilled out in a whisper of years.

Behind it, tucked tightly into a pocket of shadow, was an envelope.

Thick. Yellowed.

Sealed with a wax circle.

A symbol she didn't recognize—three interlocking crescents.

She opened it with shaking fingers.

Inside was a letter.

And a key.

The letter was handwritten. Slanted. Bold.

The signature at the bottom:

Naomi.

But the first line stopped her heart cold.

"To the girl who's pretending to be Aria— You can stop now."

She almost dropped it.

Almost screamed.

Instead, she sat down.

Read.

And everything came apart.

"You always wore the act well. Even when I told you not to. Even when I begged you to stop limping. You said the crutches made people trust you. That if you looked broken, they'd protect you. But you were never broken. You were the strongest of us all. You still are. You just forgot it. Because you chose to forget. And now you've looped again."

Looped.

That word again.

Everyone kept hinting at it.

But now it wasn't just a theory.

It was a sentence.

"I left this letter behind because I knew you'd find it. You always do. You always wait too long. But this time, maybe you'll wake up sooner."

Aria put the letter down.

Her breath was shallow.

Too fast.

She looked at her legs.

One thin. Slightly atrophied.

But not weak.

She bent it.

No pain.

Moved her foot.

No stiffness.

She could've cried.

She could've screamed.

But instead, she reached for the crutches beside her bed and stood.

Out of habit.

Out of fear.

Then she walked.

Three steps.

Four.

Without them.

Then she picked the crutches back up and placed them under her arms.

She left her room and went down the hall.

Not to find the others.

Not yet.

To test something.

There was a storage closet near the servants' stair.

She'd tried to open it before—once, months ago. It never opened.

But the letter had come with a key.

She slid it into the lock.

The door clicked.

Inside was a staircase.

Narrow. Spiral.

Leading down.

Into the dark.

She didn't go yet.

Not tonight.

She closed the door gently.

Locked it again.

And returned to her room.

On the way back, she caught her reflection.

Not the limp.

Not the girl she'd shown the others.

But someone taller.

Straighter.

Someone who looked back with the same expression Naomi used to wear.

Knowing.

Watching.

Waiting.

She read the rest of the letter in bed.

"This house feeds on forgetting. On lies we agree to wear like clothes. Yours was the limp. Mine was the smile. Neither of us meant to stay. But we did. Again and again. You can still walk out. But you have to walk for real this time. No more pretending. Not even for their sake."

Aria folded the letter neatly.

Put it under her pillow.

And took one crutch away.

Then sat on the edge of her bed.

Staring into the dark.

Waiting for the dreams to come.

This time, she'd face them.

Standing.