The first light of false dawn had barely begun to gray the edges of the Frenchmen Street rooftops when Maya opened her eyes.
She was still on the narrow couch in the upstairs room above the Spotted Cat. Kai lay beside her—spooned against her back, one arm draped over her waist, breath slow and even against her neck. For a moment she let herself pretend the night before had been a nightmare: the red smoke, the figure in Grandma Ruth's dress, the second door, the lullaby that wasn't supposed to exist anymore. She let herself believe she could roll over, kiss him awake, and they would walk downstairs for coffee like any other couple who had spent a night in a borrowed room.
Then she felt it.
Not a sound.
Not a movement.
A pressure.
Inside her chest—right beneath her sternum—something tightened. Not pain. Not fear exactly. Just… weight. Like someone had placed a cold palm flat against her heart and was waiting for her to notice.
She sat up slowly.
Kai stirred immediately—eyes opening, body shifting from sleep to alertness in one fluid motion.
"You felt it," he said. Not a question.
Maya pressed her hand to her sternum. "It's been there since we left the house. I thought it was adrenaline. Panic. But it's still here. Steady. Like it's… listening."
Kai sat up beside her. The blanket slid to his waist. In the weak light from the streetlamp outside, the silver in his hair caught faint glints, making him look older and younger at the same time.
He placed his own hand over hers—pressing both palms against the spot.
His brow furrowed.
"It's not just you," he said quietly. "I feel it too. Fainter. But present."
Maya's stomach turned over. "What is it?"
"I don't know yet." He looked toward the window. "But it followed us. Which means it's not bound to the house anymore."
The words landed like stones in deep water.
Maya stood. Walked to the window. Pushed the curtain aside.
Frenchmen Street lay empty below—wet pavement shining under the last few neon signs still burning. A delivery truck idled at the corner, exhaust curling white in the cold air. No red glow. No smoke. No silhouette in a wedding dress.
But the pressure in her chest pulsed once—sharp, deliberate—like acknowledgment.
She turned back to Kai.
"We can't wait," she said. "We go back today. We open that second door. We end this."
Kai rose. Crossed to her in two strides. Took her face between his hands.
"If we open it without knowing what's waiting," he said, "we might not come out the other side."
"Then we find out first." Her voice was steadier than she felt. "We talk to Miss Clara. She knew Ruth better than anyone. She heard you singing for years. If anyone remembers the old rites—the ones used to lock you away—she will."
Kai studied her—searching for doubt, for fear, for anything he could use to talk her out of it.
He found none.
He kissed her forehead—lingering, fierce.
"Together," he said.
"Together."
They left the room without waking the owner downstairs.
The streets were still quiet. Mist hung low over the pavement. They walked—fast, purposeful—toward the Seventh Ward.
Miss Clara's house was a narrow camelback shotgun on Rampart, one block from the old family place on St. Bernard. The porch light was already on. She was sitting in her rocking chair when they turned the corner—blanket across her lap, thermos of coffee at her elbow, eyes fixed on the street like she had been expecting them.
She didn't stand when they climbed the steps.
She just looked at Kai—long, searching—then at Maya.
"Y'all in trouble," she said. Not a question.
Maya nodded once.
Miss Clara sighed. "Come inside. Coffee's hot. And the story's long."
The kitchen smelled of chicory and bacon grease and something sharper—herbs, maybe, or incense burned earlier. Miss Clara set three mugs on the table without asking. Then she sat.
"Ruth never told me everything," she began. "But she told me enough. Said there was a price paid a long time ago to keep the women of your line safe. Said the price was a man who loved too hard. Said he was put away so no daughter after would make the same mistake. She never said his name. Never said where. But every time she came back from the attic she looked lighter. Like she'd set something down she'd been carrying for decades."
Maya's throat tightened. "She talked to him."
Miss Clara nodded. "Every few weeks. Late. When the house was quiet. She'd sit by that loose board and speak soft. Sometimes she'd laugh. Sometimes she'd cry. I heard her once—through the floor—say, 'I'm sorry we did this to you.' I never asked who she was talking to. Some things you don't ask."
Kai leaned forward. "Did she ever mention another door? Something sealed deeper?"
Miss Clara's eyes narrowed. "She never did. But she did say once—only once—that the binding wasn't clean. That when they locked you away, something else got locked in with you. She called it 'the remainder.' Said it was the part of the curse nobody wanted to claim. The anger. The shame. The fear that made them do it in the first place."
Maya felt the pressure in her chest pulse again—sharper now.
Miss Clara noticed.
"You feelin' it, aren't you?" she asked Maya.
Maya nodded.
Miss Clara stood. Walked to a cabinet above the sink. Pulled down a small brown bottle—hand-labeled, no print. She poured three drops into Maya's coffee.
"Bay leaf and hyssop," she said. "Won't stop it. But it'll quiet it for a while. Give you room to think."
Maya drank. The taste was bitter, herbal, grounding.
Miss Clara sat again.
"If you go back," she said, "you can't go back pretending it's just a door. Whatever's behind it has had a hundred years to remember why it was sealed. And it's had twenty-two years to watch you two fall in love. It knows what you are to each other. That makes it dangerous. That makes it personal."
Kai's hand found Maya's under the table. Squeezed.
"What do we need?" he asked.
Miss Clara looked at him—really looked. "You need protection. Not just salt. Not just prayer. You need something stronger. Something that remembers the old ways without fear."
She stood again. Walked to a small shelf above the stove. Pulled down a cloth-wrapped bundle—tied with red thread.
She set it on the table between them.
Unwrapped it.
Inside lay a small mirror—hand-sized, oval, silver frame tarnished black. The glass was dark, almost smoky.
"This belonged to my grandmother," Miss Clara said. "She called it a 'truth mirror.' Said it shows what's really standing in front of you—not what it wants you to see. If you take it down there, hold it up to whatever comes through that second door. Don't look away. Don't blink. Let it see itself."
Maya reached for it.
The moment her fingers touched the frame, the mirror warmed.
And reflected—not her face.
Not Kai's.
But a woman in a white dress—lace collar, long sleeves—standing behind them both.
The same woman who had stood in the doorway last night.
The same woman whose lullaby still echoed in Maya's ears.
Only now she was smiling.
And her eyes were no longer red.
They were Maya's eyes.
Exact same shade of brown.
Exact same flecks of gold.
Maya dropped the mirror.
It clattered on the table—face down.
Silence.
Then Miss Clara spoke—voice calm, but firm.
"You take that mirror," she said. "You go back. You open that door. You look at what's waiting. And you remember one thing."
She leaned forward.
"It's not your grandmother. It's not your blood. It's the part of the curse that learned how to wear her face. And it's been waiting for you to come back so it can wear yours."
Maya stared at the overturned mirror.
Kai's hand tightened on hers.
"We go tonight," he said.
Maya nodded.
"Not because we want to," she whispered.
"Because we have to."
Miss Clara re-wrapped the mirror. Tied the red thread tighter.
"Take salt," she said. "Take water. Take each other. And when you see her—when she tries to speak—don't answer until you're ready to name what she really is."
Maya took the bundle.
Kai stood.
They thanked Miss Clara—words too small for what she had given them.
Then they left.
Outside, the mist had lifted. The sky was turning pink at the edges.
They walked back toward the car—hand in hand, mirror in Maya's coat pocket, iron key still burning faintly against Kai's palm.
Neither spoke.
Neither needed to.
Because the pressure in Maya's chest had changed again.
It wasn't just listening anymore.
It was answering.
Soft.
Sweet.
Singing the same lullaby Ruth once sang.
Only now the voice was Maya's own.
And it was calling her home.
(to be continued…)