I. THEDA → MARA
(never sent)
> Mara,
I almost loved you.
Not the way Irlenne did — open-mouthed and foolish, offering you her pulse like a prayer.
And not the way Lucien tried to — like someone salvaging a storm.
No.
I loved you in the way poison loves its bottle.
I knew what you could do. I kept you corked and pretty.
I thought control was safety.
I was wrong.
You burned everything anyway.
And I hate you for what you did.
But I hate myself more for the night I watched you strike the match.
I didn't stop you.
Because I wanted to see what would break.
And what did.
—Theda
---
II. IRLENNE → HERSELF
(buried in the garden, inside the old music box)
> To the girl I once was,
You tried so hard to make love a mirror.
You looked for reflection in everyone else's eyes. You wanted to see yourself through Lucien's devotion, through Mara's obsession, through Theda's strange silences.
But they weren't mirrors.
They were rivers.
And you kept drowning.
The first time you kissed Mara, you thought it meant you were chosen.
But it only meant you were convenient.
The first time Lucien whispered "stay," you thought he meant forever.
But he meant for now.
The truth is:
You were always enough.
You just weren't enough for people who didn't know how to love things that didn't shatter first.
You know better now.
I forgive you.
I love you.
Come home.
—Irlenne
---
III. LUCIEN → MARA
(found unfinished in his sketchbook)
> Mara,
I dreamed of you last night.
Not the version with the fire in her mouth and lies on her lashes.
The other version.
The girl who used to climb trees barefoot, who bit into apples without checking for poison.
The girl who once told me she wanted to be a legend — even if it meant dying beautifully.
I hated you for what you did to Irlenne.
And I hated myself more for not hating you sooner.
But I've learned something.
You were a story written in blood.
You weren't born cruel.
You were just tired of being invisible.
I see you now.
And I let you go.
—Lucien
(unfinished)
---
IV. UNSIGNED LETTER, FOUND IN THE EAST WING MIRROR
(handwriting unidentified, but the mirror cracked after it was written)
> To the girl who became the villain because no one asked what she wanted,
You did awful things.
You betrayed your friend. You poisoned her love. You burned down a house filled with secrets because you couldn't bear to be one.
And still.
I believe you loved them.
In your own way.
You were the storm and the shelter.
The knife and the one bleeding.
Maybe this was never about being loved.
Maybe it was about being remembered.
Well, you are.
Every crack in the glass, every haunted room, every echo — they all say your name when no one is listening.
I hope you made peace with the silence.
I hope you still dance in the dark.
I hope you found your way home.
(unsigned)
"The Girl at the Iron Gate"
POV: Unknown Girl
---
The girl arrives just before dawn.
She wears no coat, even though the morning wind bites like memory. Her shoes are thin. Her socks don't match. Her eyes are grey — not silver like magic, not storm-dark like fury, but the kind of grey that suggests she's forgotten what joy is supposed to look like.
She stands at the rusted iron gates of the manor, where wild roses twist up the bars and dew clings like secrets.
She has a letter in her pocket.
She does not take it out.
She just waits.
She's heard stories. Whispers. A place where ruined girls go when the world's mirror tells them they're too broken, too loud, too sharp, too strange.
Where the ghosts don't haunt — they teach.
Where a fire once burned, but didn't consume.
Where glass hearts cracked, but still beat.
---
Inside the manor, Theda is the first to sense her.
She's always been good with thresholds.
She steps into the corridor without shoes, braid half-tied, a cup of chamomile cooling in one hand. The house murmurs to her in a language it only started speaking after the fire stopped pretending it had teeth.
There's someone here.
Not an intruder.
A question, dressed like a girl.
---
The iron gate groans when it opens.
The girl doesn't flinch.
Theda studies her. Sees the way she keeps her hands in her pockets like they might give her away. Sees the shoes — two sizes too small. Sees the scars on her knuckles that speak of mirrors broken not by accident.
"What's your name?" Theda asks gently.
The girl hesitates.
Then:
> "Whichever one you won't use against me."
Theda nods once.
"Then we'll wait to name you. No rush."
The girl looks past her to the manor — the rebuilt wings, the winking windows, the half-grown gardens. She looks like someone expecting a trick.
She whispers, "Is it real?"
Theda smiles, slow and sad.
"It is now."
---
They walk up the path together.
Past the wild rosemary.
Past the new sundial.
Past the old stone bench where Irlenne kissed Mara and didn't yet understand what cost meant.
The girl asks nothing else.
But she glances back once, at the gate — the world outside — with a strange softness.
As if she didn't realize how much weight she was carrying until she stopped.
And the house exhales.
A new soul.
Another echo.
Another chance.