E L L E 

The frost still hasn’t melted from my sleeve when they separate us. Luke’s hauled down the corridor by a prefect, hand wrapped in gauze, shouting that he’s fine while ice still burns across his knuckles. The dark-haired boy stays back, those strange light-marks fading under his skin. He doesn’t speak, he just watches me like he’s holding his breath for both of us.

Headmistress Draven’s heels click against stone, sharp as clock hands. She surveys the hallway, lockers rimed white, air glittering with frost dust. “Reflection,” she says at last, calm as a verdict. “That’s what you need.” Reflection. Right.

She doesn’t raise her voice; she doesn’t have to. “Silent hours. Library. Alone.”  Each word lands heavy, like they’re meant to pin me in place.
“Until dawn, Wrenwood.”

The prefect gestures me forward. My scarf drips meltwater behind me, marking every step. Somewhere down the hall, the locker exhales again, softer this time, almost a sigh. I don’t look back. I can’t.

The library after curfew feels wrong. No whispers, no page turns, no shuffle of chairs, just rows of books and the soft flicker of old lamps fighting the dark. Draven calls this punishment reflection, but it feels like being buried alive in quiet.

The prefect walks me to a single table wedged between two huge shelves that block out the windows. “No talking. No light except these. Don’t leave the circle,” he says, bored, like he’s done this a hundred times. Then the door locks behind him.

The silence is heavy, pressing down until my own breathing sounds too loud. When I exhale, a thin fog slips across the table and fades. The air smells like old paper and metal, like rusted coins and rain. I tell myself it’s fine, just books, just quiet. But the quiet feels alive. Like it’s listening.

He isn’t supposed to be here. I know that, but when a shadow flickers between the shelves, the brief glint of black fabric, the sheen of metal catching candlelight, my pulse trips. He keeps to the dark, one aisle over, half-hidden behind a column of books. Not a sound, not a word, but the air changes around him, cooler, steadier, almost safe.

We’re both meant to stay silent, and somehow that makes it worse. The space between us buzzes like a held breath. I don’t look up, but I feel him watching. Every tiny movement I make sends a shiver of air across my skin, as if the room notices me through him. My mind won’t stop looping the last hour, his hand catching mine, the light under his skin, the locker breathing my name. If he hadn’t stopped it..

I press my palms flat against the desk, grounding myself. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Just waits in the dark, a promise I can’t quite name, and that silence between us?
It aches louder than any scream.

The lights hum overhead, one of them flickering like it’s about to burn out. A faint buzz echoes through the shelves, then a pop, the bulb at the end of the aisle dims to a weak orange glow. I glance toward the far end of the row where the shelves narrow around a mirror panel, an old decorative thing, silver spotted, cracked at one corner.

For a second, I think I see him reflected there. The shape of a shoulder, a faint gleam of metal near his wrist, but when I turn my head, the aisle is empty. The reflection doesn’t move with me. It stays a beat behind, like the mirror’s lagging, buffering reality.

A chill slides up my spine. I pull my scarf tighter, the fabric still damp from earlier. The frost on the table pulses faintly, matching my heartbeat. The silence thickens until I swear I can hear it breathing and somewhere between shelves, a page turns itself.

I shouldn’t think about Luke but I do.  The sound of his voice still clings to the inside of my head, warm, certain, human.  You’re not alone, he said, earlier, before everything froze over. He’s probably furious now. Or afraid. Or both.

I press a hand to my sleeve where the frost burned me earlier. It’s smooth again, but the memory bites. A promise is supposed to be safe. But mine, his.. it always ends in cold. I close my eyes and whisper inside my own skull, Just breathe. The frost under my fingertips softens, melting to dew.

Then, faintly, from somewhere beyond the next shelf, I hear it. A breath, not mine. Followed by a voice.

“Elle.”

It’s his voice. Luke’s. Clear as if he’s standing right behind me. My throat closes. “Luke?” I almost say it, but I bite the word before it leaves, my teeth clenching around it. I freeze, listening. The silence stretches, then the voice comes again, softer.
“Hey. You’re safe now. It’s just me.”

Every muscle in me trembles. He always said that when I was scared. Always. I turn slowly toward the sound. Between the rows, the air ripples faintly, like heat distortion, but cold. A shadow shape leans just beyond the next shelf, face hidden.

“Elle,” it says again, exactly the same tone, the same warmth that used to untangle my fear. The frost spirals crawl up my wrists, glittering blue-white. I take a step closer without meaning to. Books whisper as they shift on the shelves, one after another, like breath. The voice hums, gentle, coaxing.
“Come here” and for one dangerous second, I want to.

The air feels wrong now, too thick, too heavy to swallow. I tell myself it isn’t him, can’t be him, but the voice sounds so close, so familiar.

“Elle,” it whispers again. “Please. Look at me.”

I shouldn’t. Every instinct screams not to, but the sound of my name in his voice cracks something open inside me. I turn a little, just enough to see the edge of the mirror at the aisle’s end. There’s movement in the glass, Luke’s reflection, soft and blurry, smiling the way he used to when everything was still simple.

My throat burns, the frost crawling my arms glows faintly now, a heartbeat under ice. The mirror’s glow pulses with it, like it’s syncing to my pulse. “Say something,” the voice murmurs, gentle, breaking. “I’m scared, Elle.”

Tears sting my eyes, It sounds exactly like him, raw, shaking, human.  How could a monster sound like love? I take a step toward the reflection, then another. The frost brightens, threads of light climbing my sleeve. If I answer, just once, just one word, it might stop. The silence, the ache, everything. My lips part.

A shadow moves, then heat, real heat, wraps around my mouth. A hand, c old metal against my skin, trembling with restrained strength. I freeze, breath caught against his palm. His other hand braces the table beside me; I can feel the vibration through the wood, the faint hum of something barely contained.

“Don’t,” he breathes, voice so low it’s almost part of the silence. He’s right beside me now, closer than he’s ever been. His eyes catch the candlelight, silver-grey, storm-bright. I can see the pain flicker there, the same strain that ripped through him in the hall.

The frost spirals flare under his touch, then die, steam rising faintly from our skin. His jaw tightens, like holding me back costs him something he doesn’t have to spare. For a heartbeat, everything stops. The mirror, the whisper, even my pulse.

Then the voice, Luke’s voice hisses from the dark behind us, sharper this time. “You can’t keep her.” He stiffens, shoulders rigid, eyes darting toward the mirror, his hand stays over my mouth, silent warning heavy in his gaze. The air cracks like thin ice, and somewhere behind the glass, something moves.

The voice cuts out, even the overhead lights freeze, no buzz, no flicker, like the whole room’s holding its breath. For a moment, there’s nothing, just the sound of his heartbeat against my back, slow and steady, counting the seconds between danger and disaster.

His hand stays over my mouth, I can feel it trembling now, not fear exactly, something heavier. He’s breathing through his teeth, trying not to make a sound. Then, from the mirror, a faint creak like glass stretching.

The reflection warps, bending the shelves behind it. Something presses against the inside, like fingers testing for a weak spot. The surface ripples once, then goes still. He shifts, stepping in front of me, blocking my view, he smells like frost and metal and rain-soaked stone. His voice is barely there, a whisper against my ear. “It heard you.”

I nod against his hand, heart hammering hard enough to hurt. A thin crack splits the mirror, slicing Luke’s frozen smile in half. Frost spills from the break, curling across the floor like smoke. He catches my wrist, pulling me back. The motion is fast, desperate, but careful, like he’s afraid to touch me for too long.

The frost on the floor rises in little spirals, spinning without sound. The mirror hums, low and alive. Then, just before the lights blink out completely, the reflection moves again, our bodies lined up perfectly, except in the glass, his hand isn’t over my mouth. It’s mine, pressed tight over his. The lights die, then the silence that follows isn’t empty.
It’s listening.