The Girl in the Mirror 1:03 a.m.
I ran.
Not out of fear—at least, that's what I told myself—but out of instinct. Whatever was behind that door… wasn't meant for me.
I dashed back to the dorm and slipped into bed just as the chapel bell tolled once. No one else stirred.
No one heard the whisper.
No one saw the ash.
Except me.
By morning, the trail was gone. My flashlight was back under my pillow, clean and bright like it had never failed.
And tucked into my shoe—something new.
A small, rusted key tied to a ribbon of black lace.
There was a tag. Old. Water-stained.
One word scratched in angry handwriting:
"Return."
Saint Briella's ran like clockwork.
At breakfast, Sister Justina read Psalm 91 while we pretended not to die of boredom over sandwiches and a bowl of oats. No one spoke of the missing girls. The teachers never even acknowledged they existed. Like the girls were ghosts before they vanished.
But I had a plan.
After class, I slipped away and made my way to the West Wing—this time in daylight. The door was still there.
And the key fit.
Inside, it smelled like rot and burnt hair. Thick cobwebs clung to broken shelves, desks with initials scratched into their wood. In the far corner, behind a half-burnt curtain, was a cracked mirror nailed to the wall.
But not just any mirror.
It was tall. Antique. With a gold frame shaped like thorns.
And written across it in faint red chalk:
"Ask her."
My heart stuttered.
Ask who?
I reached out—and for a moment, the reflection didn't match my movement.
I froze.
The girl in the mirror looked like me. Same face. Same short braids. But her eyes… weren't mine.
They were sunken. Older. Full of fire.
Then she spoke.
"Remi. You're late."
The room went ice cold.
"I've been waiting for you… just like she waited for us."
I stumbled back, heart racing, nearly knocking over a broken chair. The mirror began to glow faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. She looked hurt, almost like she was broken.
"She wants her story told. All of it. Or this school will never rest. And you…"
She pointed.
"…you are the last of us."
And then—crack.
The mirror shattered from the inside.
But not onto the floor.
The shards stayed suspended mid-air—hovering—and rearranged themselves into letters.
TIWA. AMAKA. YEJIDE. BISI.
REMI.
My name was now etched in glass among the dead.