Maya did not scream when the mirror shattered.
She stood frozen in the attic doorway, glass fragments glittering at her feet like broken moonlight, while the white light from below pulsed once—bright, angry—then collapsed inward. The hole in the floorboard snapped shut. The missing plank reappeared as though it had never left, edges seamless, wood grain perfectly matched. If she hadn't seen it happen, she might have believed the whole thing was hallucination born of exhaustion and grief.
But the pressure in her chest remained.
Sharp now.
Personal.
Like a hand had reached inside her ribs, found her heart, and squeezed—just enough to remind her it was there.
Kai moved first.
He knelt beside the restored floorboard, pressed his palm flat against the wood. His fingers splayed wide, searching for warmth, for vibration, for anything that proved the past thirty seconds had been real.
Nothing.
The house had gone quiet again—too quiet. Even the rain outside seemed to have paused.
He looked up at Maya.
"She was real," he said. Voice low. Rough. "Not a memory. Not a ghost. She was there. Trapped. Asking."
Maya's legs gave out. She sank to the floorboards—back against the attic wall, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. The cedar chest stood open beside her; one of Grandma Ruth's dresses had slipped to the floor, crimson silk pooling like spilled wine.
"I saw her eyes," Maya whispered. "They were mine. The same color. The same shape. But the fear in them… that wasn't mine. That was hers."
Kai crawled to her side. Sat close enough that their shoulders touched. He didn't try to hold her—not yet. He simply let his presence be felt.
"The first Maya," he said. "My Maya. She never made it out of that attic on Rampart Street. I thought… I thought they let her go after. That she was buried somewhere quiet. That she had rest. But they didn't bury her. They buried me. And they kept her. Locked her away in the same binding. Used her face. Her voice. Her memory. To make sure no one else would ever try what we tried."
Maya pressed her forehead to her knees.
"She looked at me like she recognized me," she said. "Like she'd been waiting for me to come back. Like I was the only one who could hear her."
Kai reached out then—slow, careful—wrapped one arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him immediately, face buried against his chest.
"She waited for you," he murmured. "Not me. You. Because you're the one who opened the first door. You're the one who broke the silence. She knew—if anyone could hear her, it would be you."
Maya's tears soaked through his shirt.
"I don't know how to help her," she said. "I don't even know what she is anymore. Is she still her? Or is she just… the remainder? The part of the curse that learned how to wear her skin?"
Kai's hand moved in slow circles on her back.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I know she's suffering. And I know we can't leave her there."
Maya lifted her head.
"Then what do we do?"
Kai looked toward the restored floorboard.
"We go back down," he said. "We take the mirror—whatever's left of it. We take salt. We take light. And we open that second door. Not to close it. To bring her through."
Maya stared at him.
"You think we can free her?"
"I think we have to try."
She nodded slowly.
"Okay."
They spent the next hour preparing.
Kai went downstairs to the kitchen, returned with a small box of table salt and a glass bottle of water from the tap. Maya gathered the largest shards of the broken mirror—careful not to cut herself—and wrapped them in a clean handkerchief from Grandma Ruth's dresser. The iron key—still warm, still engraved with its warning—went into Kai's pocket.
They stood at the edge of the floorboard again.
Maya knelt first. Pressed her palms to the wood.
It felt ordinary now. Cool. Solid.
She lifted.
The board came up easily.
Stone steps.
Faint green-gold moss—dimmer than before, almost apologetic.
No white light.
No red smoke.
Just quiet.
They descended.
The tunnel felt shorter this time. The air less oppressive. The moss flickered weakly, as though exhausted from last night's display.
At the bottom the black door waited—smooth, silent, unchanged.
But beside it—where the second archway had been—only blank stone remained.
Maya touched the wall.
Cold.
Solid.
Gone.
She looked at Kai.
"It sealed itself," she said.
"Or it moved," he answered.
He pressed his hand to the stone—searching for warmth, for give, for anything.
Nothing.
Maya pulled the handkerchief from her pocket. Unwrapped one of the mirror shards.
Held it up to the blank wall.
The glass shimmered.
Then cleared.
And showed them.
Not the chamber.
Not the archway.
A different space.
Narrow.
Stone.
A single iron chair bolted to the floor.
The woman sat there again.
Same white dress.
Same red ribbons in her braids.
But now her head was bowed.
Her shoulders shook.
She was crying.
Silent, soundless tears.
Maya's own tears fell in answer.
The woman lifted her head slowly.
Looked directly into the mirror.
Looked directly at Maya.
And mouthed two words.
*Find me.*
Then the reflection rippled—like water disturbed.
The woman's face changed.
Became Ruth's.
Then Maya's mother's.
Then Maya's.
Then nothing.
The mirror went dark.
Maya lowered her hand.
The shard was cold now.
Cracked further.
She looked at Kai.
"She's not gone," she said. "She moved. She's still here. Somewhere deeper. Somewhere we haven't looked."
Kai nodded.
"Then we look deeper."
He pressed both palms to the blank stone wall.
Closed his eyes.
And pushed.
The wall gave.
Not much.
Just a crack.
Thin.
Vertical.
White light leaked through.
Faint.
Cold.
Inviting.
Maya stepped forward.
Kai stepped with her.
They pushed together.
The crack widened.
Stone ground against stone.
The wall parted.
Revealing another tunnel.
Narrower.
Darker.
No moss.
No light except what spilled from behind them.
They looked at each other.
Maya took his hand.
They stepped through.
The tunnel sloped downward—steep, slick with moisture. The air grew colder. Thicker. The pressure in Maya's chest intensified—sharp, rhythmic, like a second heartbeat trying to sync with her own.
They walked for what felt like minutes.
Then the tunnel ended.
Abruptly.
In a small chamber.
Rough-hewn.
No polish.
No quilts.
Just stone.
And in the center—an iron chair bolted to the floor.
Empty.
But the seat was warm.
As though someone had just left it.
Maya stepped forward.
The pressure in her chest exploded into pain—white-hot, blinding.
She gasped.
Dropped to her knees.
Kai caught her before she fell.
"Maya—"
She clutched his shirt.
"It's here," she gasped. "It's inside me. It's—"
Her voice changed.
Mid-sentence.
Became someone else's.
Soft.
Young.
Terrified.
"Kai…"
He froze.
The voice was hers.
But it wasn't.
It was the first Maya's.
The one who had never made it out of the attic on Rampart Street.
Maya's eyes rolled back.
Her body went limp.
Kai lowered her to the stone floor—careful, gentle.
Her lips moved.
No sound at first.
Then—whispered.
"Help… me…"
Kai knelt beside her.
Took her face between his hands.
"Maya," he said. "Maya, come back."
Her eyes snapped open.
But they weren't Maya's eyes anymore.
They were the woman in the chair's eyes.
Terrified.
Desperate.
"Please," she whispered. "Don't let it take me again."
Kai's tears fell—silent, unstoppable.
"I won't," he promised.
He leaned down.
Pressed his forehead to hers.
And whispered the only thing he could think to say.
"I love you."
The pressure in Maya's chest shattered.
Light flared—golden-green, soft, familiar.
The woman's face faded.
Maya's eyes returned.
She gasped—once, hard.
Then sat up.
Looked at Kai.
"She's free," she said. "She let go. She used me to say goodbye."
Kai pulled her into his arms.
Held her while she cried.
Held her while the chamber grew quiet.
Held her while the last echo of the lullaby faded.
When she finally lifted her head, the iron chair was gone.
Only smooth stone remained.
No doors.
No hum.
No remainder.
Just them.
In the dark.
In the quiet.
In the light they had made together.
Maya touched his face.
"Let's go home," she said.
Kai nodded.
They stood.
Hand in hand.
They walked back through the tunnel.
Up the stairs.
Through the attic.
Down the main stairs.
Out the front door.
They didn't lock it behind them.
They didn't need to.
The house on St. Bernard Avenue stood quiet in the morning light.
Empty.
Peaceful.
Free.
And somewhere—perhaps in the wind that moved the banana leaves, perhaps in the soft creak of the porch swing, perhaps in the way the sunlight touched the windows—the first Maya smiled.
One last time.
Then let go.
Forever.
Maya and Kai walked away.
Hand in hand.
No more keys.
No more doors.
No more hidden parts.
Only love.
Only light.
Only the rest of their lives.
(to be continued…)