"They say love saves you. But sometimes, it simply marks the place where you began to fall."
---
It started with silence. The kind that curled under the door like smoke and slipped into Clara's lungs. Her apartment was quiet, except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak from the old wooden beams.
But the mirror...
The mirror was loud. It didn't speak, not yet, but it thrummed like a second heartbeat in the room. Clara sat cross-legged on her bed, notebook untouched beside her, staring at the antique frame. Her reflection stared back, motionless, almost bored.
Then the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
The glass shimmered.
Clara didn't flinch. This was her normal now. Or whatever passed for it. What did it even matter anymore?
She stood and walked to it.
"All right," she whispered. "If you want something… say it."
At first, nothing.
Then—
"I never wanted blood," a voice from the mirror said. Not hers. Not Gustav's.
It was velvet and venom. Familiar now. Like a second skin.
Bathory.
Clara's breath hitched. In the glass, her reflection no longer mimicked her movements. It tilted its head, a faint smile playing on its lips.
"I wanted love. I wanted safety. But the world only gave me one path: fear or power. So I chose power."
Clara stepped closer, her fingers touching the surface. It was warm, almost pulsing. Her reflection watched her with half-lidded eyes.
"You think I'm the villain in your story," the mirror-woman said, "but I was the ending to someone else's."
Clara swallowed. "Are you me?"
"No." Her voice was patient. "But you were me. Or will be. We're echoes, dear girl. One long scream stretched across centuries."
Clara backed away, her heart hammering. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"Because you're the only one left who can carry what I couldn't."
The mirror stilled.
Her reflection returned. Just her. Pale. Confused. Shaking.
A knock at the door.
"Clara?"
Gustav.
She exhaled, shaky, then opened it.
He looked… disheveled. His coat was half-on, his hair tousled. His eyes were rimmed with something that looked like exhaustion—or worry.
"I—sorry to come so late," he said. "I just… couldn't sleep."
Clara stepped aside. "Neither can I."
She hesitated, then added in a murmur, "You don't have to knock next time. I already gave you the PIN, remember?"
Gustav blinked at that, then managed a tired smile. "Right. Still feels strange."
They sat on the floor by the window, the city lights blurring in the fogged glass outside. Gustav held a cup of tea he never actually drank.
"I had a dream," he murmured.
Clara glanced at him. "Me too."
He chuckled, a bitter sound. "Yours first."
She hesitated. "She spoke to me. Said she wasn't a monster. Said she was… made that way. By pain. By men."
Gustav nodded slowly. "That fits the pattern."
"Pattern?"
He looked at her, and for the first time, his eyes didn't feel like a professor's. They felt like a man's. Open. Afraid.
"My mother killed herself in front of a mirror that looked just like yours," he said quietly. "I was eight. She said it was cursed. That it 'wanted her back.'"
Clara felt the air around them tighten.
"Gustav… I'm scared. Not just of the mirror. But of myself. I'm changing. I don't feel like me. Not entirely."
He moved closer.
"You're still you," he said. "Just… heavier with memory."
Their eyes met.
He reached out, hesitated—then gently brushed a curl behind her ear.
"I shouldn't," he whispered.
"Then don't," Clara said, but she didn't pull away.
He kissed her.
It wasn't frantic or rehearsed. It was hesitant. Soft. Like tasting a forgotten language. Their mouths met, and for a moment, Clara forgot the mirror, the blood, the voices. There was only this: warmth. Breath. The raw shape of want.
But then Gustav pulled back. Fast.
His hand flew to his lips like he'd burned himself.
"What's wrong?" Clara asked, her voice trembling.
He stood. Backed away.
"I saw something. In your eyes. Just now. When I kissed you."
Clara rose. "What did you see?"
He looked at her like he literally couldn't speak the words. "Not you."
She blinked. "Then who?"
He didn't answer.
He just grabbed his coat and left. The door clicked shut behind him. Silence returned, heavy and complete.
Clara stood frozen for a moment. Then, she slowly turned to the mirror.
Her reflection was smiling.
But Clara wasn't.
Her knees gave out. She crumpled to the floor, hot tears streaking down her cheeks.
"I didn't ask for this," she whispered, the words choked.
The reflection knelt too, mirroring her perfectly. But it didn't cry.
It grinned. Slowly. Pleased.
Clara reached up, her hand shaking, and touched the cold glass.
The reflection's hand didn't shake.
And then, without moving its mouth, a voice echoed inside her mind:
"Love never saved me. Why would it save you?"
Clara sobbed, her body wracked with shivers.
The mirror pulsed.
---
"Are they all me?"
Her voice barely rose above a whisper, trembling—not from fear, but something sharper. A deep, unsettling knowing.
Gustav didn't look away from the mirror. Inside its swirling silver-black surface, seven blurred figures flickered in and out—women who looked like Clara, but weren't quite her. Some wore veils. One was shackled. Another stood blood-soaked, smiling serenely.
"They're not copies," he said. "They're versions. Variants. Shadows cut from the same soul across time."
Clara stepped forward, her breath hitching. "And you…? Have you always been here, watching them?"
His eyes finally met hers. There was no apology in them—just a sad, timeless ache. "I've tried to pull each one back. I failed six times."
"And the seventh?"
"You haven't failed yet."
The silence between them was jagged, almost painful. Clara touched the mirror's surface. It was warm now—like skin.
"I saw one of them," she whispered. "She mouthed something. 'Rescue me.' Was she talking about herself, or me?"
Gustav's jaw tensed. "Both."
Clara turned sharply. "Why me? Why am I tied to this? To her?"
He stepped closer, his voice barely audible. "Because once, centuries ago, you made a deal with the mirror. You wanted to rewrite fate. And in doing so… you fractured."
Clara's throat tightened. "So I'm broken?"
"You're splintered," he said. "But not lost."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Then tell me everything. No more riddles. No more half-truths. Who am I really?"
Gustav's expression shifted—resignation, perhaps. Or reverence.
"You were Clarae of Nadasdy. Heir to the Bathory line. A witch by blood, a scholar by trade. You tried to reverse your family's curse, to unmake centuries of bloodshed. But something went wrong. The spell shattered your essence across time. And the mirror—your mirror—was the anchor."
Clara's heart pounded so hard she thought it might bruise her ribs. "That's impossible."
"And yet," he said gently, "you've always been drawn to blood. To mirrors. To forgotten names."
Clara staggered back. "I'm not some relic of a dead countess. I'm a university intern with student loans and an espresso addiction—"
"You're also the girl who dreams in languages she's never learned," Gustav interrupted. "The girl who wakes with ink on her hands from drawing places that don't exist anymore. The girl who hears whispers when the rest of the world is silent."
Clara's mouth opened—but no protest came. Because everything he said was true.
"Then why bring me here now?" she asked. "What's changed?"
"The Codex woke up," he said simply.
They both turned to the pedestal. The Mirror Codex was pulsing again, its pages twitching like muscle.
Gustav continued, "It's alive. And it only responds to you."
Clara stared at the book. "So… I read it?"
"No," Gustav said sharply. "Not yet. Not without binding the names first."
"Binding?"
"There are seven versions of you. Seven names, seven lifelines. You must claim them—or someone else will."
A cold realization slithered down her spine. "Who else is trying to claim them?"
Gustav didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped to the mirror and placed his hand on it. The surface rippled. A shape began to form.
At first, it was just smoke. Then a face—beautiful, regal, cruel. Eyes like black glass.
Bathory.
Clara felt bile rise in her throat. "She's still alive?"
"She's still watching," Gustav corrected. "And she wants her legacy back. Through you."
"I'm not her."
"You share blood. That's enough for the mirror."
Clara stepped back from the Codex. "So what now? I just walk into this cursed book and collect pieces of my soul like stamps?"
"Not stamps," Gustav murmured. "Ghosts. Regrets. Wounds. You'll find them in memoryscapes. Fractured timelines. Echoes of choices you never made. You must convince each version of yourself to come home."
"And if they don't want to?"
"Then the mirror eats them."
Clara let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Great. No pressure."
Gustav moved toward her, slowly, deliberately. He placed a hand on her shoulder. It was warmer than she expected. Steadying.
"You won't be alone," he said.
She looked up. "Will you be there?"
His voice dropped to something more intimate. "Always."
A long silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable—but heavy with something unspoken. Something older than both of them.
"What if I'm not strong enough?" Clara whispered.
Gustav reached out and tucked a curl of hair behind her ear. "You already are. You were the first time."
Her voice was barely a whisper. "How do you know?"
"Because I loved you then too."
Clara froze. Her heart stopped.
"I'm sorry?" she said, breathless.
His gaze didn't flinch. "You don't remember. But I do. We stood in front of that mirror three centuries ago. You kissed me before you walked into it. Said you'd come back."
Tears stung her eyes. "I didn't."
"No," he said quietly. "But maybe this time, you will."
The Codex throbbed again. The room dimmed. The candlelight twisted.
Gustav took her hand. "One version at a time, Clara. One life. One name. Start with the one who never stopped dreaming."
Clara turned back to the mirror. Her reflection shimmered—then fractured.
And seven shadows stepped into view.
---