Saint Briella's Academy for Girls – Hidden Room, West Wing – 1:27 p.m.
I should have screamed. I should have run.
But the moment I saw my name on the mirror, a strange calm settled over me.
Not peace—something else.
Like my place in the story had already been written, and all I could do now… was make sense of it.
The girl in the mirror was gone. The shards had reformed into their frame, smooth and flawless, like nothing had happened.
Except for the list.
Tiwa. Amaka. Yejide. Bisi. Remi.
I was the fifth name.
The last girl.
By the time I left the West Wing, the halls were too quiet, the sun hanging low and heavy. A shadow passed behind me—but when I turned, there was nothing.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I kept hearing it.
The voice.
Faint, inside my pillow, inside my chest.
"Return what was stolen…"
But what? What had been taken?
Zina stirred in her bed. Her eyes fluttered open.
"You're next," she whispered in the dark, voice hollow. "It's almost the anniversary. She always comes back on the fifth year."
My blood ran cold.
"What anniversary?"
Zina sat up suddenly, like something else had taken over.
"The fire. The first five girls. The cover-up."
She blinked—back to herself.
"…what's did I just say?"
The Next Day – Library Basement
No one goes into the basement. Not since the collapse.
But the key I found?
It unlocked a hatch behind the archives.
What I saw down there was worse than any ghost.
A file cabinet, untouched by all except dust.
Inside: yellowed reports, Polaroid photos, handwritten letters with school crests.
Photos of the original five. Not us.
Five girls—burnt dorm uniforms, charred beds.
Their faces were scorched out in every image. Except one.
The leader.
Head Girl. She wore the head girl brooch, Sharp eyes. One braid down her back. Holding a journal.
Her name: Adebola Eniola.
A note paper-clipped to the photo read:
"Initiation gone wrong. Fire contained. Survivors sworn to silence. Body… unrecovered."
But there were no bodies because…
She didn't die. Not fully.
And she's still here.
Eniola was the first girl to open the door to the mirror. She played with forces beyond our world—performed a ritual to bind her soul to the school itself. When it failed, she burned. But the others were trapped with her. Their souls caught between life and death. Every five years, five new girls are chosen—mirrors, echoes of the first.
Each time, Eniola tries again. Possessing one. Searching for a vessel strong enough to carry her pain, her rage, her power.
And this year, that vessel is me.