The rain had stopped by the time they reached the old shotgun house on St. Bernard Avenue, but the air still felt heavy, saturated, like the storm had only retreated to catch its breath.
Maya parked two blocks away—same shadowed lot behind the shuttered po'boy stand. The engine ticked as it cooled. Neither of them moved for a full minute.
Kai broke the silence first.
"We don't have to do this now," he said. "We can come back at night. With more light. With more people."
Maya shook her head. "It knows we're coming. It felt us leave last night. If we wait, it has more time to prepare. To learn us better."
She pulled the cloth-wrapped mirror from her coat pocket. The red thread Miss Clara had tied around it felt warm against her palm.
Kai looked at the bundle like it might bite.
"You sure about that?" he asked.
"No," she admitted. "But it's the only thing we have that might show us what's really waiting."
He nodded once—sharp, decisive.
They walked the rest of the distance in silence. The street was empty except for a stray cat watching from a fence post. The house looked ordinary in daylight—peeling green paint, sagging porch, banana trees dripping leftover rain. But the front door was still ajar, exactly as they had left it.
Kai went in first.
Maya followed.
The hallway smelled worse than before—mildew sharper, camphor fainter, overlaid with something metallic and burnt. The living-room lamp lay shattered on the floor. Glass glittered like fallen stars.
They climbed the stairs without speaking. Every creak felt louder than it should.
The attic door was wide open.
Inside, nothing had moved.
The cedar chest remained closed. The dresses were still folded. The wedding photo still watched from the wall.
But the floorboard was missing again.
The rectangular hole gaped—clean-edged, dark.
White light rose from below—cold, steady, inviting.
Kai stopped at the edge.
Maya stepped beside him.
She unwrapped the mirror.
The silver frame felt heavier than last night. The glass was darker—almost black now, reflecting nothing.
She held it up.
The white light surged—bright, blinding.
Then the mirror cleared.
And showed them.
Not the chamber.
Not the second door.
A different room.
Smaller.
Rougher.
Stone walls dripping with moisture. No quilts. No tapestries. Just a single iron chair bolted to the floor.
And sitting in it—a woman.
Young.
Early twenties.
Hair in two thick braids tied with red ribbon.
She wore a white dress—lace collar, long sleeves.
The same dress from the photograph.
The same dress the figure had worn last night.
But this woman's face was clear.
Terrified.
Her mouth moved—silent, frantic.
She was screaming.
Maya's hand shook. The mirror trembled.
The woman in the reflection reached out—fingers pressing against the inside of the glass, as though trying to push through.
Maya stepped closer to the hole.
The woman's eyes locked on hers.
And then—clear as spoken words, though no sound came from the mirror—she mouthed one phrase.
*Help me.*
Maya dropped the mirror.
It shattered on the floorboards—glass spraying outward.
The white light below snapped off.
Darkness rushed up from the hole—fast, cold, hungry.
Kai yanked Maya back.
They stumbled out of the attic—down the stairs—through the hallway—out the front door.
The street was still empty.
The cat was gone.
They ran to the car.
Maya started the engine with shaking hands.
Kai slammed the passenger door.
They peeled away from the curb.
Neither spoke until they were three blocks clear.
Then Maya said—voice small, cracked—"That was her. The first Maya. The one you loved."
Kai stared straight ahead.
"Yes."
"She's still down there."
"Yes."
"Trapped."
Kai closed his eyes.
"I thought she was gone," he said. "I thought when they locked me away, she was already… free. In whatever way death frees someone. I never imagined—"
Maya gripped the wheel harder.
"She's not dead," she said. "She's caught. Like you were. But different. Smaller. Darker. They didn't just bind you. They bound her too. Or some part of her."
Kai opened his eyes.
"The remainder," he said. "Miss Clara was right. The fear. The shame. The anger. But it wasn't formless. It wore her face. It wore her voice. It waited for someone to open the door so it could finish what it started."
Maya's chest ached—sharp, sudden.
"She asked for help."
Kai looked at her—eyes wet.
"I couldn't save her the first time," he said. "I won't fail her again."
Maya nodded.
"We go back," she said. "Not to close the door. To open it all the way. To bring her out."
Kai reached across the console. Took her hand.
"Together," he said.
"Together."
They drove in silence for a long time.
The city slipped past—quiet streets, early risers, ordinary life continuing as though nothing had changed.
But everything had.
The lullaby had stopped.
The pressure in Maya's chest had eased.
And somewhere beneath the old house on St. Bernard Avenue, in a room no one had seen for a century, a woman in a white dress waited.
Not screaming anymore.
Just waiting.
Because someone had finally heard her.
And someone was finally coming back.
(to be continued…)