Mira stayed inside for the rest of the day. Every time she glanced at the lake, her skin prickled like it was staring back. The whispers hadn't returned—but that almost made it worse. Silence felt like the lake was holding its breath again.
She couldn't shake Jin's words: *"She appears before the lake claims someone."*
Evening fell. The sky turned amber, the lake a mirror.
She opened her grandmother's attic for the first time. Dust rose like fog. Old boxes, a trunk, and shelves filled with journals lined the space. Mira pulled one out. Her grandmother's handwriting filled the pages.
One entry stood out:
*"The lake speaks at night. Not everyone can hear it. I think it remembers grief. I think it calls out to those who've suffered loss—pulls them closer. That's how it took my sister."*
Mira's blood ran cold.
She flipped to the back of the book. Taped inside was a drawing—sketched roughly, as if done in fear. It was the woman from the lake.
Her face was hollow. Eyes black.
Below it, one word was written:
*"Mirror."*
Suddenly, downstairs, the wind howled—and something slammed against the door.
Mira rushed down, her heart pounding.
No one was there.
But on the porch… was another bouquet of water lilies, dripping wet.
And the note tied to it read:
*"She remembers you now."*
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