They drove through the night, the highway a ribbon of gray beneath the moonlight.
Neither spoke much. The air between them was heavy — not just with exhaustion, but with the quiet pull of something calling them home.
By dawn, the landscape began to change. The trees grew sparse, the fog thickened, and the road twisted upward through the hills. The GPS lost signal miles back, but Iris didn't need it. She knew the way.
Every turn, every incline — it was buried in her bones.
Luke glanced at her as the ruins came into view.
Or what should have been ruins.
He slammed on the brakes.
The house was standing.
Not as it had been before the fire — but rebuilt, perfectly.
Every brick, every window, every railing — identical.
Except the air around it shimmered faintly, like heat rising from asphalt, though the morning was cold.
Luke stepped out of the car slowly. The silence of the hill pressed against him, unnatural and complete. Even the birds avoided the place.
"I don't understand," he murmured.
Iris stared, tears welling in her eyes. "It's the same. Exactly the same."
They walked toward the front door. The wood gleamed as if it had never burned. The brass handle was warm to the touch.
Luke glanced at her. "You don't have to go in yet."
"Yes, I do," she whispered. "This is where I died."
Inside, the air was still — thick with the scent of smoke and something faintly sweet, like scorched flowers. Every surface was dustless, untouched, waiting.
And everywhere they looked — mirrors.
Dozens of them. On the walls, the tables, even the stairwell. Some new, some impossibly old.
The moment Iris crossed the threshold, the temperature dropped. The mirrors flickered faintly, one by one, like waking eyes.
Luke touched her shoulder. "Iris—"
But she was staring at her reflection. Her eyes glowed faintly gold, the same light that pulsed from the mirror Lucien had given her.
"They remember me," she whispered.
"Then we make them forget," Luke said.
He stepped toward the nearest mirror and smashed it with a nearby chair. The glass shattered — but instead of falling, the shards hung in the air, suspended, rearranging themselves.
When they settled, the reflection staring back wasn't his.
It was Emma.
Her voice came from everywhere at once, soft and calm.
"You shouldn't have come back, Luke."
He froze. The sound of her voice hit like a wound reopening.
"I had to," he said quietly. "To end it."
Emma's reflection smiled faintly, though her eyes were hollow flame.
"Then you'll have to choose again. You always do."
Iris stepped forward, clutching the small mirror Lucien had given her. The glass vibrated in her hand, matching the rhythm of her heartbeat.
"What does she mean?"
Luke looked at the reflection. "It's not Emma. It's the fire using her face."
The house groaned as if in pain. The walls rippled. Every mirror began to glow at once, each one showing a different version of the same scene — Luke and Emma the night of the first fire, over and over, but changed each time.
In one, Emma ran.
In another, Luke burned.
In a third, both stood hand in hand, surrounded by light.
The fire was showing them every possible ending.
Iris's voice broke. "It wants us to choose which one becomes real."
Luke's breath caught. "Then we don't give it what it wants."
But the house laughed — a low, rolling sound from the walls themselves.
"You already have."
The mirrors shattered in unison.
The floor beneath them split open.
And below, they saw flames — not chaotic, but alive. Waiting.