Back in class, Ms. Thorne stood by the window, watching the gray sky roll.
Elle stepped inside.
Their eyes met.
And the teacher gave a slow, knowing smile.
“Some doors open for everyone,” she said softly.
“Others must be chosen.”
The rest of the day blurred.
Elle couldn’t concentrate.
Couldn’t breathe right.
The spiral was with her in every shadow, every reflection, every glance that lingered a second too long.
By the time she got home, her reflection was already waiting.
It didn’t smile.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t move—except to lift one finger…
And point behind her.
Elle spun around.
Nothing.
When she turned back—
The mirror was cracked.
Written across the break, traced in frost:
He is near.
Her breath caught.
She staggered back, heart hammering—
Until her heel struck the loose floorboard where the box was hidden.
It was vibrating.
Elle dropped to her knees. Opened it.
No feather this time.
No letter.
Just a new object, wrapped in silver cloth.
Her fingers peeled it back.
A pendant.
Shaped like a spiral.
Warm to the touch.
And humming.
Like it was calling to something she hadn’t met yet.
Something that was already looking for her.
Elle barely slept.
And when she did, the dreams came sharper.
More violent.
Voices whispering through cracks in the ceiling.
Doorknobs turning but never opening.
Frost curling in spirals across her walls like veins of growing ice.
She tried to ignore it.
But everything was shifting.
The world no longer felt solid.
Even the students had changed.
Their reflections didn’t always move the right way.
Sometimes—when she passed a mirror too quickly—she caught glimpses of them:
Distorted.
Fragmented.
Bleeding through from places they couldn’t see.
And now—
They were watching her.
The girl with the frost.
The one who dreamed in spirals.
She found another note on Monday.
Not in the locker.
Under her desk.
Not handwritten.
Typewritten.
On brittle, yellowed paper that felt like it had been waiting decades to be read.
Not all mirrors lie.
Some reflect what’s coming.
Elle crushed it in her fist.
Her heart thudded like a war drum.
No name.
No signature.
Just that same cold certainty curling down her spine.
During art period, she couldn’t draw.
Her pencil hovered above the blank page.
Ms. Thorne glided between desks, her heels making no sound at all.
As she passed Elle, she murmured:
“You feel it, don’t you?”
Elle’s head snapped up.
“What?”
But Ms. Thorne was already gone—drifting toward the windows as if the moment hadn’t happened.
That afternoon, the hallway near Locker 237 was cordoned off again.
Another fake sign.
“Chemical Maintenance.”
Elle waited until the school emptied.
Then ducked under the yellow tape.
The corridor was silent.
Empty.
Cold.
Above Locker 237, something had been scrawled across the wall.
Barely visible.
Etched in frost.
Not a spiral.
A sigil.
A summoning mark—
One she recognized from Nan’s journal.
And beneath it:
A single word.
Chosen.
The pendant at her neck pulsed.
Warm.
Alive.
Something was coming.
She didn’t know what.
But it already knew her name.
Author’s Note
By now, you’ve stepped too close to the Rift. The mirrors aren’t just watching anymore—they’re waiting. And the next time you look, something might be looking back.
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