Alika’s POV

The car arrived just before twilight.

A black limousine—polished to a mirror shine—glided through the orphanage gate like it belonged to another world. It didn’t belong to this crumbling town, not to the cracked pavement or peeling signs. Its presence alone felt like a warning.

I stood frozen by the iron fence, clutching my worn cardigan as the engine stilled.

A man stepped out.

Not young. Not old. Just… sharp. Every line on his suit, every movement, every glance felt rehearsed. He carried something—a sleek black folder—and handed it to the headmistress with the kind of subtle authority that made people listen before he spoke.

He whispered something.

She turned to me. Her expression unreadable.

That’s when everything shifted.

---

“He wants to marry you.”

The words landed heavier than they should have.

I blinked across the dinner table, trying to find a punchline. “Excuse me?”

“He’s serious,” she said, folding her hands over the file. “And he’s already sent the contract.”

“What contract?” I laughed dryly. “I haven’t even met the man.”

“You will. Tomorrow morning.”

“Wait—who even is he?”

Her eyes flickered toward the window, as if checking to see who might be listening. “He’s… from the estate.”

I knew instantly which one she meant. The one on the hill. The one people crossed the street to avoid. The one no one spoke of after dark.

“I’m not some item to be offered off,” I whispered.

“No,” she said gently. “You’re not. But you are… alone. And sometimes, that matters more than we want it to.”

---

He arrived in the rain.

No umbrella. No haste. Just the deliberate, steady rhythm of shoes on stone. He stepped through the orphanage gates like he had done it a thousand times, like this moment wasn’t strange at all.

He looked like he belonged in another century.

Dark suit. Crisp shirt. No tie. His presence felt like gravity, like silence sharpened into human form.

He didn’t smile when we were introduced.

But he watched me.

With eyes that felt too old for his face. With a gaze that pinned me in place and made me forget how to breathe.

“This must be strange for you,” he said, his voice like dusk—quiet and inevitable.

“I’d say ridiculous.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Then I appreciate your honesty.”

“You really want to marry someone you’ve never met?”

“I don’t believe in love at first sight,” he replied. “But I do believe in necessity.”

I folded my arms. “So I’m… necessary?”

“Yes.”

“To what?”

He paused. “That’s something you’ll understand in time.”

Everything in me screamed to run. But the strange thing was… I didn’t.

Maybe it was the quietness in him. The way he never raised his voice.

Maybe it was the way he looked at me—not like a stranger, but like someone he’d been searching for, for far too long.

Or maybe I was just tired of waiting for something—anything—to begin.

---

The wedding happened three days later.

No white horses. No string quartet. Just vows spoken in a cold marble hall beneath a stained-glass ceiling that filtered the sun into fractured shadows.

He wore black.

I wore white.

He said his vows like they were etched into his bones.

I said mine because… I didn’t know how not to.

There were no witnesses on my side.

On his, only a row of silent men in matching suits—and one woman, far in the back, with a veil over her face. She never moved. Never blinked.

The moment the rings touched our fingers, the light dimmed.

It was only four in the afternoon.

But outside, the sky turned the color of mourning.

---

The estate was worse than I imagined.

Perched like a watchful bird on the edge of the hill, it loomed over the forest below. The gates groaned open on their own. The house breathed—wood groaning, windows pulsing with old air.

The air felt… thick.

Heavy, like walking through water.

Inside, the walls were lined with old portraits. Women with hollow eyes. Men with proud frowns. A baby in one painting had a blood-red ribbon tied around its throat.

I stopped in front of it. “Who were they?”

“Family,” he said.

The word didn’t sound like comfort. It sounded like a warning.

---

The bridal suite was beautiful. In a terrifying way.

Velvet drapes. Gold-etched mirrors. A chandelier that looked ready to fall with the weight of memory. Everything smelled like roses—but old, dried ones. The kind that crumble when touched.

An elderly maid showed me in. Her eyes never met mine.

“Get some rest,” she said.

Then paused at the door.

“And whatever you do,” she added, voice low, “don’t open the center mirror.”

I turned. “Why not?”

Her lips parted like she wanted to speak… but she shook her head and closed the door behind her.

---

I didn’t sleep.

Not because I wasn’t tired—but because the silence was too loud. The room felt like it was waiting for something. Like I wasn’t alone.

I sat on the edge of the bed, gown spread around me, watching the mirror.

It stood tall and regal in the corner. Three-paneled. Gilded.

The middle section was covered with a black velvet cloth.

Curiosity pressed against my ribs.

I didn’t want to be the kind of girl who touched things she was told not to.

But I also didn’t want to be the kind of girl who obeyed without asking why.

I stood.

Stepped forward.

My fingers touched the cloth. It felt cold.

I pulled it away.

The mirror showed my reflection—alone in the room, pale in candlelight.

But then…

Movement.

Behind me.

I turned. No one.

Turned back to the mirror.

She was there.

A woman in white.

Long veil. Hollow eyes. Blood dripping from her mouth.

Her hand lifted—slow, deliberate—and pressed against the inside of the glass.

I stumbled back, heart hammering.

A whisper slid through the air like wind under the door.

“You opened it.”

The door behind me creaked.

I ran to it. Threw it open.

No one.

Only the hallway. Empty. But not still.

The chandelier swayed. The floor throbbed beneath my feet.

I stepped back into the room and locked the door.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry.

I just stared at the mirror.

The woman was gone.

Only my reflection remained.

And yet I couldn’t help but wonder—

Was it ever me in the mirror at all?

Alika’s POV

***

I stood before a tall mirror, its glass fogged with time and laced with silver cracks, like veins under old skin. My white wedding gown—soft as smoke—dragged behind me, whispering across cold marble.

No laughter echoed in the room.

No bridesmaids fixing my hair.

No music. Only silence and the ticking of an unseen clock.

They say your wedding day is the happiest day of your life.

But standing here—alone, watched only by my reflection—I felt like a lamb draped in silk, walking into a storm.

This house… wasn’t made for joy.

It breathed sadness from the walls.

---

The estate stood like a mausoleum at the edge of the forest, wrapped in ivy and fog. I’d only arrived hours ago, but already the place felt older than the trees surrounding it. Its halls whispered. Its shadows moved a little too thoughtfully.

They say no bride has ever left this house unchanged.

Some never left at all.

I didn’t want to believe the rumors—until I saw the woman in the portrait by the staircase.

She wore a wedding gown identical to mine.

But the paint couldn’t hide her terror.

---

A knock on the door.

I turned.

Standing in the doorway was her—his mother.

Black lace wrapped her like mourning. Her brooch was a coiled golden serpent, and her eyes were colder than the marble beneath my feet.

“It’s time,” she said. Not unkindly. Just… inevitably.

I followed her through the corridor, lined with portraits that blinked in the corners of my vision. One woman’s eyes followed me. One man’s mouth curled into something almost like a smirk.

The great hall was dim, lit only by dozens of aged candles.

Crimson drapes choked the windows.

No sunlight entered.

There were ten people in the pews. All silent. All from his family.

No one from mine.

Of course not.

I clenched my fists, grounding myself in reality.

You said yes.

You signed the papers.

You made this choice.

But my body trembled.

Not from nerves.

From something else.

Something… watching.

---

He stood beneath the altar.

Tall. Silent. Waiting.

His black suit shimmered with a pattern I hadn’t noticed before—glyphs. Ancient, curling script woven into the fabric like a secret prayer.

When our eyes met, I forgot how to breathe.

He wasn’t smiling.

But there was something in his gaze—like he was memorizing me.

Not adoration. Not hunger.

Recognition.

The ceremony passed in fragments.

A priest whose voice never rose above a whisper.

A ring colder than bone sliding onto my finger.

And his hand—brushing mine, warm and still… too still.

No kiss.

No music.

Only silence.

And a storm rumbling just beyond the horizon.

---

They led me to the bridal suite after.

No one spoke. Not even him.

The room was beautiful. Velvet. Candlelight. Gold.

But it felt like a cage.

A large mirror loomed opposite the bed. The corners were carved with snakes and blooming roses. An old wardrobe stood in the corner like it hadn’t been opened in decades.

The scent of jasmine filled the air—but it was thick, almost choking.

His mother stood in the doorway, hand on the doorknob.

“Midnight,” she said. “He will come then.”

Her voice wavered. Just for a second.

“And until then?” I asked.

She looked at me—not with malice, but pity.

"Whatever you hear, do not open the door.”

Then she left.

And locked it from the outside.

---

Time melted.

By eight o’clock, the shadows had lengthened. The wind howled against the windows, though the trees outside were still.

And then—came the crying.

A woman’s sobs. Barely audible.

Mourning. Shattered. Ancient.

I pressed my hands over my ears. But her voice—her grief—seeped through my bones.

> “Don’t make the same mistake. He’s not who you think. The wedding isn’t for love…”

I stumbled to the wardrobe.

It creaked open without touch.

Inside… another wedding dress.

Identical to mine.

Stained with blood.

A small mirror fell from the top shelf and shattered on the floor.

I crouched, heart racing.

But the reflection staring back wasn’t mine.

Her face was half-missing. Burned. Eyes like empty wells.

But she smiled.

I screamed.

The mirror vanished.

The wardrobe door was closed.

I was alone.

Again.

---

Then—midnight struck.

The door opened with a breath.

He stepped in.

My husband. And yet… not.

He was dressed in the same suit.

But his skin was pale, like carved alabaster.

And his eyes—glowed faintly, like embers in a dying hearth.

“Good evening,” he said. His voice echoed too long for the room.

“My bride.”

I couldn’t move.

I wanted to run.

But something in his presence wrapped around my limbs like silk and stone.

He approached slowly. “You’re afraid. You should be.”

“Who are you?” I whispered.

He smiled. Not cruelly. Not gently. Just… knowingly.

“I am what remains. I am the vow that outlived its speaker.”

He lifted a hand. His fingers brushed my cheek. Cold.

And my skin burned beneath his touch.

“You think this marriage was about love?”

His words shook the room.

“No. This is a pact. You are not here to love me. You are here to finish what you began long ago.”

I stared at him.

> “What did I begin?”

He tilted his head.

“You were never meant to be mortal. That’s why you hear them. That’s why the mirror showed you what you forgot. Look closer—at yourself.”

He handed me the broken shard of mirror.

And there—through the cracks—I saw her again.

Golden eyes. A mark on her neck like an ancient seal.

My face.

But… not mine.

Something deeper. Older.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered.

“You will. Soon.”

---

A scream echoed from below.

Not human. Not animal.

And then… footsteps. Too many. Moving in sync.

He turned to the door, frowning.

“They’re early,” he muttered.

I backed away.

“What is happening?” I demanded.

He didn’t answer.

He just looked at me—like someone seeing the moon for the last time.

“I chose you,” he said. “Not because I had to. But because I remembered.”

He stepped closer.

“If you still want to run, run now.”

I didn’t move.

Not because I trusted him.

But because something inside me whispered:

> You’ve been here before.

---

The door burst open.

The hallway was filled with… them.

Brides.

Pale. Hollow. Veils trailing behind them like smoke.

Eyes shining like mirrors. Blood dripping down their dresses.

He stepped between me and the door.

But they didn’t attack.

They only whispered.

> “Wake up…”

> “Finish it…”

> “Or become one of us.”

I fell to my knees, gripping the mirror shard tight.

In its surface, I saw myself.

And behind me… a crown. Bone. Shadow.

Not a victim.

Not a bride.

> A queen.

Alika’s POV

***

The wind outside howled like it remembered my name.

I lay awake in the bridal chamber, blanketed not by warmth, but by a growing weight pressing on my chest. The old windows shivered with every gust. Faint whispers rode on the wind, curling into my ears like secrets I was never meant to hear.

The bed beside me was cold.

Raditya had left hours ago—said he needed to speak with his mother downstairs. But something told me he hadn’t truly left.

Not him.

Not all of him.

---

I rose, the lace of my nightgown brushing against the worn wooden floor. I didn’t feel the chill anymore. Fear has a way of numbing you before it devours you.

The mirror across the room stood taller than me. Its gold frame shimmered like it breathed.

Earlier, it had shown me clearly.

Now, its surface was fogged—clouded with a silvery sheen like frost on a grave.

I stepped closer. Slowly.

When I exhaled, my breath left no mark.

Instead, her face appeared.

Behind my reflection.

A woman in a decayed bridal gown. Her hair was soaked, tangled over her shoulders. Her eyes were hollowed from endless crying.

But she wasn’t dead.

Not entirely.

She was... mourning.

I whispered, “Who are you?”

Her mouth moved, but her voice didn’t come from the mirror. It came from somewhere inside me.

> “You already know me.”

I turned sharply.

No one stood behind me.

But when I looked back—

She was bleeding.

Thick, black blood dripped from her lips, staining her chest. Her eyes—golden like candlelight—stared into mine with unbearable sorrow.

Then she said it.

> “Help me. I am you.”

---

I stumbled back, knocking into the bedpost. The lights flickered once—then darkness swallowed the room whole.

The sobbing returned.

Not from the mirror.

From under the bed.

A woman’s grief, raw and endless.

I crawled back, trying to reach the door—only to trip.

Something cold gripped my ankle.

A hand. Pale, slender fingers curling into the hem of my gown.

I screamed and kicked free, scrambling to the door, pounding.

“Raditya!” I cried. “Please! Open it!”

No response.

Just the wind.

And a voice behind me.

> “He won’t save you. He never does.”

I turned.

The mirror glowed faintly in the dark, like a window lit from another world. The woman inside it moved—not like a ghost, but like a prisoner pacing her cage.

She pointed toward the wall.

I followed her gaze—toward a painting.

A young bride in colonial lace. Her eyes held secrets. Her smile… defeat.

The name beneath:

> “Anindya Damar, 1893 – Disappeared on Her Wedding Night.”

The voice returned, stronger.

> “The curse feeds on brides. On purity. On memory. But one bride... was never forgotten.”

> “You,” I whispered. “You’re the first.”

She shook her head slowly.

> “I was the beginning. But I wasn’t the end.”

> “Then who is?” I asked.

The mirror flickered.

And then—I saw myself in her dress.

But not the version I knew.

This woman held a dagger in one hand. Her eyes blazed with fury.

The voice inside me whispered:

> “One soul. Split across time. A heart that remembers pain… and another that denies it.”

> “You’re saying… I’m you?” I asked.

> “No,” she replied.

> “You’re worse.”

---

The door creaked open.

Raditya stood there, his silhouette framed in moonlight.

But this time, I didn’t run.

He approached slowly, his face unreadable.

“You screamed,” he said softly. “Was it the mirror again?”

“You know what I saw,” I replied.

He exhaled.

“I’ve always known.”

Silence stretched between us.

Then, unexpectedly—he stepped forward and took my hand.

His touch was warm now.

Too warm.

Like fire beneath skin.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered.

“I was trying to spare you.”

I stared into his eyes.

They weren’t glowing now. But something in them... mourned me before I had even died.

“You think you’re protecting me,” I said.

He said nothing.

Only pulled me closer—close enough that our foreheads touched.

> “You deserve to remember,” he whispered. “But if you do… you’ll never forgive me.”

And in that fragile space—between truth and illusion—I felt it.

Not love.

Not yet.

But recognition.

> “Tell me,” I begged.

But he only said, “Sleep now. While you still can.”

---

That night, I dreamed.

Of mirrors that bent the sky.

Of blood that sang in my veins.

I stood barefoot in a room of endless white. Dozens of brides passed me—soulless, eyeless, dressed for death. One by one, they walked into a pit of obsidian shadow.

I tried to scream.

Then a hand reached for mine.

I turned—

The mirror woman.

But now… she wore my face.

And her mouth moved with my voice.

> “You didn’t start the curse. But you will end it.”

> “How?”

> “Before the third night… kill the one you love. Or the curse consumes you.”

---

I awoke with a gasp.

Raditya was gone.

A folded note waited beneath the door.

I picked it up.

The handwriting wasn’t his.

It was delicate. Slanted. Written in a hand that remembered pain.

Two lines:

> “Don’t trust what you see.

Even love can be a curse.”

—Anindya

Below it… blood. Dried. Faint. But real.

And the mirror?

It was smiling.

I approached the mirror slowly.

My reflection still stared back—but this time, the expression didn’t match how I felt.

In the mirror, I looked… resigned.

My eyes were blank, my lips curled into a faint smile—a smile I never learned. As if the woman in the mirror knew more about how this story would end than I ever would.

I touched the surface.

Cold.

And yet beneath that coldness, I felt... alive.

Suddenly, the floor beneath me vibrated gently. Not like an earthquake. More like something shifting beneath the house.

Footsteps echoed outside. Not just one set—many.

I backed away from the mirror, holding my breath.

Tall shadows passed across the bottom of the door. Human shapes. But they didn’t move. They only stood there... still. As if waiting for a signal.

I reached for the doorknob and peeked through the peephole.

No one.

Then—knocking came from inside the wardrobe behind me.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I turned slowly. The old wardrobe loomed like a coffin waiting to be opened.

“Don’t open it…” a voice in my mind whispered.

But my body didn’t listen.

With trembling fingers, I reached out and pulled the door open.

Empty.

Only the same wedding dress I’d seen before—hanging lifelessly.

But now, there was something new: a white porcelain mask, its hollow eyes staring straight ahead, hanging from the dress’s neck.

A message was written beneath it:

> For the 27th bride. Who will see the truth without eyes.

Suddenly, the light in the room flickered on.

Raditya stood in the doorway, like a shadow pulled from a nightmare.

“What did you see?” he asked.

I turned to him, lifting the mask in my hands.

His eyes narrowed. But he didn’t look surprised.

“So it’s begun,” he muttered.

“What do you mean ‘it’s begun’?” I asked, my voice sharp.

He didn’t answer right away. But in his eyes, I saw it—grief so deep it hurt to witness.

“If you’ve seen her,” he said slowly, “that means your time is almost up.”

“Time for what?”

He stepped closer. Slowly. Only a breath separated us.

“Time to choose... between love and destruction.”

“But… you love me, don’t you?” I asked, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted my hand and gently pressed something into my palm: a small iron key, cold and ancient.

“You’ll know when to use it,” he said.

Then he turned to leave. But before he crossed the threshold, he whispered:

> “If I change tonight… don’t trust anyone. Not even me.”

The door closed behind him.

And for the first time, I was truly alone...

with a key in my hand—

and a mask that had started to drip blood from its hollow eyes.