The mirror.
The old one above the dresser.
The one Damien covered with a sheet when we moved in.
Why did he cover it?
I move slowly, each step thundering in my ears. My throat is tight. My pulse is louder than the whistle now.
The door creaks open, and I see it.
The mirror.
The sheet is gone.
Across the surface?—
a message scrawled in red.
It’s written backwards, like he wanted me to read it the second I walked in.
I always knew you’d forget me.
So I carved myself into the walls.
Now you remember.
Now we can play again.
I spin, knife raised.
Empty room. No movement.
I move to the mirror, breath fogging the glass, heart clawing at my chest.
And then—I see something behind my reflection.
A vent.
Small.
Rusty.
Loose.
I drop to my knees and dig my fingers under the edge. The screw is already halfway out.
Like he wanted me to find it.
I rip it off and freeze.
Inside?
A cavity.
A space I should’ve known was there. A void running behind the drywall. Big enough to crawl through.
And inside it—Photos.
