Elias lay awake long into the early hours, the echoes of fractured reflections still dancing behind his closed eyelids. The phrase "Prepare for the ritual" lingered in his mind like a summons he could no longer ignore. He rose before dawn, moving through his apartment in near silence as though each creak might awaken something unseen. The air felt charged; every surface seemed to hum with expectancy. He retrieved the small journal from his nightstand and wrote by dim lamplight: "I will pursue this invitation, however perilous. The mirror's reach has grown; I must face whoever calls me." His hand trembled as he closed the journal, aware that a journey awaited him beyond anything he had yet endured.
Later that morning, a message appeared on his phone, though he had expected nothing but solitude. A brief email with no sender name carried only a few lines: "Elias, you have seen the cracks and heard the whispers. To know more, come tonight to the place where mirrors sleep. Bring only a light and an open mind. Details to follow." Below, coordinates pointed to an abandoned glassworks factory on the city's outskirts. A symbol—a circle bisected by a thin vertical line—hovered at the bottom of the message, evoking the bone-dust marking he had glimpsed in his dreamlike realm. His pulse quickened. That symbol had guided him before; now it beckoned him toward something deeper. Hesitation warred with compulsion. He recalled his father's warning: "Return to the mirror and listen. But be cautious: what you find may not let you return unchanged." He typed a terse reply: "I will come," and felt the weight of choice settle in his chest.
All afternoon, he prepared as if for a voyage into another world. He packed a small flashlight with fresh batteries, the journal and pen, a cloth to cover obvious mirrors, and one of the bloodstained shards from the ritual—wrapped carefully in soft fabric. He dressed in dark, unassuming clothes, mindful that every reflective surface he passed could betray his movements. The cracks he had seen in mirrors around him felt like bruises on reality itself; he wondered whether those fissures would spread further once he pursued the ritual. Yet the yearning for truth, the need to understand his mother's fate and the mirror's power, overrode fear.
At dusk, he set out. The sky was heavy with clouds, the last light fading into a bruised twilight. The bus ride to the outskirts felt endless; streetlights blinked halfheartedly, as though reluctant to illuminate his path. He clutched the wrapped shard in his pocket like a talisman, though its warmth sometimes pulsed against his leg, reminding him of the price he had already paid. Memories surfaced unbidden: his mother's whispered obsessions, his father's anguished confessions, the mirror's first visions. Each recollection felt raw, yet necessary.
When he arrived at the glassworks, the building loomed against the darkening sky: tall windows, many shattered, edges jagged like teeth. The iron gate hung ajar, swaying slightly, creaking with every whisper of wind. Elias paused at the entrance, heart pounding, flashlight in hand. The scent of damp concrete and rusted metal rose from within, tinged with memory as if the place remembered its former life crafting mirrors. He stepped over fragments of broken glass on the threshold, each shard glinting faintly in the beam. Inside, vast halls stretched into shadow. Moonlight filtered through the remaining panes, casting ghostly patterns on dusty floors.
He followed the coordinates: down a corridor lined with collapsed beams and shattered frames, until he reached a chamber that once held glowing furnaces. The air here was thick with ash and old fire, as though the element of transformation still lingered even in abandonment. In the center, on the cracked floor, lay a circle drawn in white powder, enclosing an arrangement of mirror shards. Candleholders stood around it, their wax hardened into grotesque shapes. On a wall coated with dust, the bisected circle symbol was scrawled, beneath it faint words in a script he recognized from his mother's notebooks: "Reflection demands sacrifice." Elias's breath caught. He felt the hush tighten around him, as though the building itself paused to watch.
He stepped into the circle, careful not to disturb the powder. The shards underfoot reflected his flashlight beam in scattered fragments. Some bore inscriptions—half-erased sentences in Arabic and English: "Remember… Let go… Witness the unseen." He knelt and touched one shard; warmth pulsed beneath his palm. The air vibrated; he sensed presences stirring around him, though no one stood in sight. He cleared his throat, voice small: "I am here." Silence answered, thick and expectant.
Then a voice emerged, soft and genderless, seeming to echo from every corner: "You have come." Elias's pulse thundered. "Who are you?" he asked, scanning the shadows. No shape moved. "One who listens," the voice replied. "One who sees beyond the cracked surface." He swallowed. "What ritual is this? Why summon me?" The voice was patient: "Because the mirror called you. Because you carry its fracture. Tonight, you stand at the threshold." The temperature dropped; breath formed mist in the cold air. Elias steadied himself: "What must I do?" The reply came: "Follow the instructions as they unfold. Speak only when required. Listen always to the glass." A distant drip punctuated the hush.
He focused on the circle's center, where a larger dark shard lay among broken fragments. Retrieving his wrapped piece, he unwrapped it and placed it atop the shattered mirror piece, aligning edges as if repairing a broken memory. The fragments fit imperfectly but intentionally. As he fitted them, the shards glimmered, reflecting patterns on the walls that shifted like living script. He recalled the directive: "Place the shard where the mirror's heart once glowed." Here, this seemed that place. The air around him hummed in response.
"Now, speak your intent," the voice instructed, though it came without movement of lips. "Speak within yourself; let thought be the offering." He closed his eyes and thought: I seek truth about my mother, about myself, about this mirror's purpose. A surge passed through him, cold and electric. The shards beneath his hand warmed further, pulsing with his heartbeat. In that moment, he felt his own life intertwined with glass and memory.
The voice guided him: "Recall the first memory the mirror showed you. Feel its weight." He summoned the image: the child in the dim room, tears and whispered plea: "Mother… I didn't kill her…" The anguish flooded back. He embraced the pain, letting guilt and sorrow rise. Then came the next instruction: "Pour a drop of blood on the shard." His pulse constricted. Yet he unsheathed a small knife blade from his pocket, pricked a fingertip, and allowed a single drop to fall onto the glass. The red bead spread, staining the surface. Immediately, the fragment glowed faintly, as if awakened by sacrifice.
"Now gaze into the reflection of these shards," the voice murmured. He positioned himself so his flashlight illuminated the assembly. In the opposite wall's reflection, the broken pieces formed a shifting mosaic: first his face, then his mother's, then a fractured kaleidoscope of distorted features. Each shift felt like a fragment of his psyche rearranging. His vision blurred; the reflections spiraled. He closed his eyes to steady himself, then reopened them to find a doorway of light emerging within the shards—a passage beckoning beyond.
"Step through in mind," the voice whispered. "Do not physically move; let your consciousness pass." He felt pulled, as if the boundary between the ruined chamber and an inner realm thinned. Lowering his gaze, he allowed his awareness to drift beyond the broken glass, leaving the abandoned factory behind.
In that inner vision, he found himself in a vast hall of mirrors: floors and ceilings sheathed in reflective panels, each pane cracked or warped. Light emanated from no clear source, bathing the space in shifting, pale hues. The air smelled of burnt wax and damp earth, stirring memories he could not fully name. Floating mirror fragments hovered like silent sentinels, each forcing a choice: peer into it for another truth, or turn away from the pain it might reveal. He sensed echoes of seekers past—perhaps remnants of his mother's own passage—lurking beyond each pane. The environment felt alive with subtle movement: shadows dancing at the edge of vision, reflections not quite matching his actions.
He approached a mirror that glowed slightly brighter than the rest. He saw his mother standing before a similar circle, performing rites with solemn intent, her expression a mixture of awe and dread, surrounded by indistinct figures chanting softly, faces obscured. He felt guilt: he had never recognized her agony, had not questioned deeply enough. The scene shifted to reveal himself as a child, glimpsing his mother's secret study: ritual symbols scrawled on parchment, mirror fragments arranged in patterns, whispered incantations. The memory comforted and terrified him simultaneously—he realized the mirror intended him to understand her motives and the price she paid.
Another pane revealed a possible future: himself cloaked in authority, wielding the mirror's power to manipulate memories, eyes hollow despite outward command. He recoiled at the arrogance and loneliness in that reflection. A third pane showed a world after shattering the mirror's hold: surroundings collapsing, chaos reigning, but his face serene, free from burden. The vision spoke of sacrifice and release. With each reflection, he understood the stakes: power could corrupt beyond redemption, yet denial might leave him powerless against forces already awakened.
A sudden jolt pulled him back to the ruined chamber floor. He opened his eyes to the abandoned glassworks, shards at his feet still faintly warm, the powder circle faint beneath his knees. The ritual had concluded. The voice spoke once more: "You have glimpsed truths. Now you know the path forks: embrace the mirror or shatter its hold. Consider carefully." Elias rose, gathering the shards and wrapping them as before. He felt both relief and anxiety: the vision had shown more than he expected, illuminating his mother's fate, his own potentials, and the perilous choices ahead.
Emerging into the night air, he sensed the world had shifted. Streetlights seemed sharper, reflections in shop windows clearer yet less reassuring. On the bus ride home, exhaustion overtook him, but dreams carried images of the mirror-hall, shifting panes, and whispered commands. He recalled his earlier resolution: tomorrow he would decide whether to pursue or flee. Now, after the rite, decision weighed heavier: he had seen the paths and must choose with full awareness of consequences.
At his apartment, he noticed reflective surfaces appeared subdued, as though acknowledging his passage through the ritual. He covered mirrors where possible, though he sensed some remained uncovered, watching. He placed the wrapped shard in a drawer, uncertain whether to preserve this token or bury it. In his journal he wrote: "The ritual opened doors within me: memories, possibilities, burdens. The mirror's power beckons with promise and peril. I stand at a crossroads: to embrace its force and risk becoming what I fear, or to resist and face the void that follows. Yet running seems impossible: the cracks follow me. I must prepare for the next step."
Sleep came fitfully, invaded by dreams of fractured reflections urging him onward. Before dawn, he awoke once more, heart racing at the echo of a whisper: "Soon, you will choose." The mirror's influence had spread beyond glass: it had seeped into his thoughts and being. Yet in that unsettling realization, a spark of determination glowed: he would face the cracks and follow the path his choice required. The next chapter awaited: a deeper descent into the mirror's realm or an attempt to sever its hold. Either way, innocence was lost. He steeled himself as morning light filtered in: the journey had begun in earnest, and there was no turning back.