The heavy oak door shut behind her with a deep, echoing thud.
It wasn't a quiet click, it sounded final. Like something being sealed, a tomb or a sentence.
Outside, the rain had been loud, pounding against the stone steps and the roof above. But inside, it was suddenly silent. The kind of silence that felt alive, like it was waiting. Watching.
Sarah stood just inside the entrance of Redwood Academy, still holding her violin case. Her fingers ached from the cold. The air smelled of old stone, dry dust, and something faintly sweet and metallic. Blood, maybe. Or rust. She couldn't be sure.
Across from her stood a tall woman in dark gray. Severe-looking, with sharp cheekbones and eyes like flat slate.
She didn't smile and she didn't blink, just stared at Sarah from head to toe, like she was measuring her, deciding something without saying a word.
Then she spoke.
"Your reputation precedes you, Miss Vance. We expect great things from your music."
Her voice was clear, clipped. There was no warmth in it.
"Redwood is a place for singular talents to find their voice."
The words felt rehearsed, like something she had said a hundred times before. But to Sarah, the phrase didn't feel like encouragement, it felt like a diagnosis or a warning.
The woman reached into her coat and held out a key.
It wasn't a normal key. Not brass or silver. It was long and thin, made of black iron, and looked like it had come from another century. The head was twisted like old tree roots, and the teeth were uneven and jagged. It looked more like a weapon than something that opened a door.
"Your room is in the East Wing," the woman said, placing the key in Sarah's hand.
The iron was freezing. Colder than the air around them. The cold seemed to sink into her skin, deep into her bones.
"We had to reopen that wing this year," she added. "Due to high enrollment. You'll have a great deal of privacy."
The way she said it made it sound like isolation, not comfort.
Sarah said nothing, she just nodded slightly.
The woman turned and began walking down the hall without waiting to see if Sarah followed. Her steps echoed sharp, quick, certain. Sarah's own shoes scuffed softly against the polished stone floor as she followed behind.
They passed old portraits, oil paintings of pale men and women in dark clothing. All of them stared straight ahead, their eyes seeming to follow Sarah with each step.
The deeper they went into the building, the colder the air became. The wide, grand hall narrowed into a long, dim corridor. The stone here was darker, and the walls were lined with wooden panels coated in dust. No one had cleaned here in a long time.
It felt like the building itself had forgotten this part of the academy existed.
They stopped at the very last door on the right. The number on it was missing, only a faded, empty shape remained where the paint used to be.
The woman pointed to the lock.
"Here you are."
Sarah hesitated, then lifted the iron key. It felt heavier than it should. She pushed it into the lock. It didn't slide in smoothly. It scraped. She turned it, and the sound it made was rough, like something grinding, like old bones.
The latch clicked.
She opened the door slowly.
The room inside was dim and gray. Dust floated in the air, swirling in a weak beam of light from a narrow, high window. There was a small bed with an iron frame pushed against the left wall, a plain wooden desk against the right, and a wardrobe standing open just enough to show the darkness inside.
It was cold. Not just cool, cold. A damp chill clung to the air, like the room hadn't been lived in for years.
Sarah took a step in, but her eyes stopped on the far wall.
There stood a mirror.
It was tall and oval-shaped, with a tarnished silver frame. But the glass was completely covered. A thick, off-white cloth had been wrapped tightly around it, tied down with a length of old rope. It looked like something had been hidden. Or buried.
From behind her, the woman spoke again.
"The building is old," she said simply.
"Things fall into disrepair. We'll have someone see to that."
She didn't say what that meant.
The cloth? The mirror? The dust?
Maybe all of it or maybe none.
Her voice was calm, almost bored.
But Sarah couldn't look away from the mirror. Something about it pulled at her. Not curiosity, fear. A quiet, buried fear that made her stomach twist.
Something inside her whispered: Don't touch it. Don't even think about it. You are not ready to see yourself.
When she finally looked back at the door, the woman was gone. Sarah hadn't heard her leave.
She was alone.
Alone with the dust, the silence, and the covered mirror.
She stepped fully into the room, placing her violin case on the bed. The mattress creaked under the weight. The iron frame gave off a faint, metallic groan.
Everything felt too still.
She walked to the window. Outside, there was no view. Just a tall stone wall, thick with dead ivy. The room didn't look out onto anything. It faced nothing.
It felt like a room built to look inward. To trap.
Her eyes drifted back to the mirror.
Something inside her stirred again, an awful, sick urge to walk over, untie the rope, and pull the cloth away.
To look.
To see.
But she didn't move. Her arms stayed at her sides, fingers clenched tightly.
She turned her back to the mirror.
And that's when she felt it.
A coldness behind her.
Sudden.
Sharp.
Not like the rest of the room. This was different. It felt focused like it had weight. Like something was standing there.
The hair on the back of her neck rose.
She didn't turn around.
She just stood there, frozen, staring at the wardrobe, listening to the thick silence.
And the silence listened back.