The wind outside had died completely.
No rustling leaves. No creaking floorboards. Only a silence so dense, it pressed against Hale's ears like deep water. He hadn't slept—not since the photograph. Not since the voice whispered, "It's not your time yet."
Now, he sat again at the edge of his bed. The streetlight's glow sliced through the blinds, casting pale stripes across his face. In his hand, the photo: Ivy and… him.
But not him.
The man in the image had his face, his posture. But there was something off. Too stiff. Too confident. Like someone pretending to be human. And the scent—once faintly Ivy's—was gone.
He should've thrown the picture away.
Instead, he stood and walked to the hallway mirror.
That's when it began.
The temperature plunged. Not a normal chill—an ancient cold, like frost whispering across bone. The mirror shimmered. Just once. Enough.
His reflection didn't blink.
Hale's breath caught.
The mirrored version of him smiled.
Calm. Serene. Too serene.
A tick echoed from somewhere deep in the house.
He glanced sideways.
3:11 AM.
Another tick.
3:12 AM.
The lights cut out.
Darkness swallowed everything—except the mirror. It still glowed. Not from light—but from within.
Then, the reflection spoke.
But the words were garbled. Backwards.
"ᴚOᴚᴚƎ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇuǝƃuɐ┴ ǝɥʇ ƃuᴉʞɐǝɹq ǝɹɐ noʎ"
Hale blinked. His mind reversed the sound instinctively.
"You are breaking the tangent of the ERROR."
His pulse quickened.
"What… what are you?" he whispered, voice trembling.
The reflection tilted its head—same motion—but the timing was wrong. A beat behind his own. Like a marionette waiting for its string.
It smiled wider, too wide, lips parting without sound at first—then came a voice, layered like overlapping tapes:
"I'm what watches when the timeline breaks."
Room 9 flashed behind him. Pulsing. Warped.
A figure inside, silhouetted.
Long hair. Pale arms.
Ivy.
No—not Ivy.
The scent returned. Faint rose. Charcoal. Wet leaves after rain.
It was her memory. But not her.
Then—
Pain.
Hale screamed as heat seared up his forearm. The mark ignited like acid beneath skin, crawling in spirals, symbols he didn't recognize forming as if etched by invisible claws. His vision blurred. The hallway twisted, ceiling arching into the impossible.
The scent grew sharper—burnt wood and roses.
The mirror glitched again.
Ivy was in his place.
Her face wide-eyed. Mouth moving, no sound.
Then, suddenly—
Gone.
The mirror reflected nothing.
Hale collapsed to his knees, gasping. His veins felt scorched, like they pulsed with electricity.
And on his arm, the mark had changed.
No longer a simple symbol.
Now a phrase, etched in jagged letters:
"She is your tether. Break her and break the last light."
The clock struck 3:13 AM.
Behind him, a sound—soft, wet.
Like something smiling with teeth.