The apartment feels too still after Birdie leaves. And I keep hearing it—the scream from the mirror. Not with my ears, but deeper. Bone-deep. Like something trapped inside me is still wailing.

Logan pours another shot of vodka and hands it to me. I take it with trembling fingers and sit down on the edge of the couch. My eyes keep drifting to the sink, to the blackened foil that holds what's left of the mirror.

We burned it. We watched it turn to ash. But the dread hasn't lifted.

"Maricel," he says gently, "it's over."

I nod, but I don't believe him.

The silence in the apartment doesn't feel normal. It feels like a trick.

He kneels in front of me, resting his hands on my knees. "You're safe now. Whatever that was—it's gone."

By the tone of his voice, I know he's not sure.

I don't call him out, I just force a smile. "Yeah."

But even as I say it, the hair on the back of my neck rises. The stillness has weight to it. Like something's watching us just beyond the corner of my vision.

Birdie's words echo in my head: "Fire cleanses, but it doesn't always destroy."

Logan puts on music—a soft classical playlist—and starts straightening the living room, like he needs something normal to do.

I just stare out the window.

The summer sky is gray again, and a drop of rain taps the glass. Then another.

I close my eyes, listening.

Eventually, I drift into sleep.

***

I wake in our bed to the sound of rain hitting the window. I don't remember how I got there. The apartment is dark now, except for the soft glow of the nightlight in the hallway.

Logan is sleeping next to me, one arm slung protectively across my waist.

I ease out from underneath him and sit up. The air feels denser somehow. Warmer. Like something is breathing in our room that shouldn't be.

I pad into the kitchen for a glass of water, but stop halfway. My hand tingles. The one with the mark. The skin is—normal. No branching veins. No strange movement beneath the surface.

I flex my fingers.

Nothing.

For the first time in days, my hand looks like it belongs to me again.

Relief pours through me, dizzying and sharp. I turn toward the hallway.

And stop cold.

There's something on the floor. A dark smudge. Just beyond the bathroom door.

I blink.

It's gone.

"Logan?" I whisper, backing up.

No answer.

I turn around—and yelp. He's behind me, rubbing his eyes. "Sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't," I lie. "It's just—I thought I saw something."

He follows my gaze down the hall. "It's just the storm. Weird shadows."

But I don't believe that.

We sit at the kitchen table. The rain continues to fall, steady and soothing. Too soothing. Like a lullaby meant to distract me.

He reaches across and takes my hand. "Tell me what you're thinking."

I hesitate. But the truth is right there, pressing on my chest like a weight I can't carry anymore.

So I tell him. "I'm scared."

He nods. "So am I. But you're not alone in this. You never were."

A lump forms in my throat. "What if it's not over?"

He doesn't answer right away. His expression tells me he's obviously struggling with whatever thoughts are in his head. And then—

"It didn't just hurt you," he says. "It may have killed your mother. It tried to keep us in that house. It showed itself to me." He pauses. "Whatever it is—I don't think it's finished."

Finally, the truth.

The air shifts, and it's that same weight. That same pressure from before. Just behind the quiet.

"What do we do?" I ask.

He looks at me, his jaw tight. "We wait. And if it shows itself again—we finish what we started."

Except.

We don't know how.

***

Later that night, after we've both managed a couple hours of restless sleep, I wake again. It's still raining. I head to the bathroom, my heart racing for no reason.

Just nerves.

I flip on the light.

There's no mirror—we already got rid of it. But inside the empty square where our mirror used to hang are words.

She made a deal.

My pulse spikes.

The statement sits there like a brand, burned into the drywall by nothing I can explain. It isn't condensation. It isn't a trick of the light. It's a warning.

Or maybe a reminder.

"Logan?" My voice comes out dry and tight.

"What's wrong?" he says from the bedroom.

"There's something you need to see."

He appears in the doorway behind me, still half-asleep. "What is it?" he asks, and then follows my gaze.

His body stiffens. "You didn't do that?"

I shake my head.

He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just stares. "What does it mean?" he finally asks.

I answer without thinking. "My mom. Remember? She made it a deal."

Logan walks up and brushes his hand across the words. "So, what—now it's your turn?"

A chill runs down my arms. "I don't know. Maybe?"

He looks like he wants to smash the wall. But he doesn't. "We destroyed it. We watched the mirror burn. Hell, we watch the entire house burn!"

I back into the hallway, needing space. From that room. That message.

Logan follows after me, quiet. I sink down onto the bed and hug my knees, trying to hold myself together.

"You know what's weird?" I tell him. "I keep remembering things now—stuff I haven't thought about in years. My mom doing these little rituals around the house. She'd stand in doorways and whisper things. Never let me look in the one mirror we kept unless she was right there beside me. Sometimes, she'd just sit for hours with her eyes closed and her hands on the floor, like she was listening for something."

"Like she was trying to keep it out?"

My voice cracks. "What if we broke whatever safeguard she put in place?"

Logan has no answer. He just sits beside me, quiet, solid. But scared.

"I feel like it's waiting," I whisper. "Like it's here. Hiding."

He takes my hand. "We'll finish this. Whatever it takes. I promise we'll find a way."

The rest of the night passes in pieces.

We avoid the bathroom. We unplug the TV. We drape towels over anything and everything that resembles a reflective surface. Every time I blink, I think I'll open my eyes and see her—me—standing on the other side of the room. Not smiling. Just watching.

Waiting for us to forget she's there.

At some point, we both crash. I don't know when. But I dream. Not of Mom's house. Not of the attic. Not even of the fire.

I dream of our living room. This one. Our couch.

I'm sitting on it, watching myself sleep. I have my own face. But it's all wrong. Pale. Smiling, but not kind.

And I'm whispering something. I can't hear what it is.

When I wake, I'm freezing.

I glance at the afghan covering our bedroom window. It's like it sees me. It sways first and then falls, allowing in the morning sun.

And there, in condensation, is a single word:

SOON.

🪞

Approximate chapter word count: 1228
Approximate total word count: 18,933