"Art remembers what time forgets. Even when the hands that drew it don't."
***
The morning after the dream left Clara shaken. Her skin still buzzed like static. Her thoughts were jagged and out of focus, like a half-finished painting. But what unnerved her the most was the fact that her sketchpad was no longer on her desk.
She found it on the floor.
Open.
To a page she didn't remember drawing.
It was a portrait—almost photo-realistic. A man, half in shadow, half in candlelight. Gustav. Or... something that looked like him. His eyes were hollow, ringed with darkness. His mouth slightly open like he was about to whisper a secret.
She traced the pencil strokes with her finger. There were dozens of tiny red smudges on the page, like fingerprints made in dried blood.
"Did I do this?" she whispered to herself.
"Clara?" Naomi's voice came from the hallway, followed by a soft knock. "You good in there?"
Clara quickly closed the pad. "Yeah, just... slept weird."
Naomi opened the door slightly, her brows furrowed. "You've been sleep-talking again. Kinda loud this time. Said something about... crimson hands?"
Clara blinked. "I... don't remember."
Naomi stepped into the room and glanced at the covered mirror.
"Still freaked out by that thing?" she asked, nodding at it.
"Just tired," Clara lied.
Naomi crossed her arms. "You sure it's not, like, cursed? Or haunted?"
Clara gave her a small smile. "What, you think Bathory's ghost is living in there?"
Naomi shuddered. "Don't joke about that. You read too much dark history."
Clara didn't respond. Because deep down, she wasn't sure it was a joke anymore.
Later that afternoon, Clara sat in the university studio, her charcoal stained fingers hovering over blank canvas. Normally, drawing helped ground her. But today, the white paper mocked her. Her mind refused to settle.
"Staring at it won't make it draw itself," came a voice.
She turned to see Professor Gustav leaning casually by the doorframe. He wasn't in his usual dark coat today. Instead, he wore a deep green sweater over a button-down. The color made his eyes even more unnerving.
"I wasn't expecting you," Clara said, trying to mask her nerves.
"I sometimes visit the studio to see if anyone's wrestling with muses or demons." He walked slowly toward her, eyes scanning the canvas. "Which one is it today?"
Clara managed a dry smile. "I haven't figured that out yet."
He chuckled, then picked up one of her discarded sketches from the floor. His face changed.
"You drew this?" he asked, holding up the portrait from the sketchpad.
She hesitated. "Apparently."
"It's... haunting," he said softly.
Clara stood and crossed her arms. "Do you see anything strange in it?"
Gustav looked closer. "There's... a depth to the eyes. As if they've seen things time itself doesn't remember. And the background—it looks like flames, or... ritual smoke?"
Clara's mouth went dry. That was exactly what she thought but couldn't name.
"Why do you ask?" he said.
Clara lowered her voice. "Because I didn't mean to draw it. I just... woke up and it was there."
Gustav met her gaze. "Art is memory in disguise. Maybe something inside you remembers what your mind hasn't caught up with."
"You think memories can live in blood?" she asked.
He tilted his head. "I think they live in everything. Bone. Ink. Mirrors."
She flinched at that word.
He noticed. "The mirror's still affecting you, isn't it?"
She nodded. "It's not just a mirror. I've been seeing... things. Myself. But not myself. Another version. And you. In dreams. Except they don't feel like dreams."
Gustav was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "Maybe they're not."
Clara looked away, unsure whether she felt comforted or terrified.
"Come," he said suddenly, stepping toward the storage room. "I want to show you something."
The studio's back room was lined with old portfolios, dust-covered frames, and student projects from decades ago. Gustav pulled out a large, flat box and set it on the table.
"This," he said, opening it, "is a portrait from the 1700s. Donated by a collector who claimed it was once part of the Bathory estate."
Clara stepped closer. The portrait showed a woman with dark curls, in a crimson gown, sitting beside a mirror. Her expression was fierce but elegant. Familiar.
She gasped. "That looks like me."
Gustav nodded. "And look at this." He pointed at the bottom right corner.
There, barely visible, was a signature: Clarae.
Clara stared. "Is this a joke?"
Gustav shook his head. "It came here long before either of us arrived."
Clara whispered, "What does it mean?"
Gustav's eyes darkened. "It means time bends. It folds in places where pain lingers. Where love dies too loudly to be buried."
She reached out and touched the painting's frame. It felt warm. Like skin.
Then the lights flickered.
For a second, she saw her own face in the portrait move.
It blinked.
She yanked her hand back.
Gustav caught her before she stumbled. His grip was steady.
"Breathe," he said. "It's not going to hurt you."
She looked at him. "How do you know that?"
He didn't answer right away.
"I don't," he said quietly. "But I do know that some things return when the world is ready to look again. Maybe you're the one who's supposed to look." His voice softened, a hint of something ancient in his tone. "And Clara... sometimes, the things we're supposed to look at are the things we fear the most."
Clara stepped back. "What if I don't want to?"
He held her gaze. "Then don't. But it won't stop looking at you." A chilling pause hung in the air. "Some visions, once seen, become a part of your own bloodline. They demand to be acknowledged."
Back at her apartment that evening, Clara paced her room. She didn't turn on the lights. The dark felt safer.
She unwrapped the mirror slowly. Her breath held.
Her reflection stared back. Pale. Nervous.
But behind her—
A flicker.
Bathory.
She appeared like a ghost in red silk, standing just behind Clara's shoulder.
"Why me?" Clara whispered.
The woman didn't move. But her lips curved slightly.
"Because your heart remembers what history erased."
Clara reached forward.
Their fingers nearly touched.
The glass pulsed, and this time, it felt like it was breathing.
A single drop of blood welled at Clara's fingertip—she hadn't noticed the tiny cut until now.
The mirror shimmered, and the woman—Bathory, or Clara's past self, or something else entirely—smiled wider.
And then, whispered:
"It begins."
***