On their way out, Amelia's gaze was drawn to a cracked mirror near the exit. She stopped, her reflection catching her attention.
"Amelia?" Thomas asked, noticing her hesitation.
She didn't respond. Her reflection wasn't her modern self—it was her, but dressed in the elaborate gown of the 18th century, her hair styled in intricate curls.
"Amelia, what is it?" Thomas's voice grew urgent.
"It's… me," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "But not me."
Thomas followed her gaze and stiffened. "What do you mean?"
Amelia's heart raced as the reflection moved, independent of her own actions. The 18th-century version of herself leaned closer, her expression somber.
"You can't save everyone," the reflection whispered, her voice faint but clear.
Amelia stumbled back, her breath coming in short gasps.
"Amelia!" Thomas caught her, his grip steady.
When she looked again, the reflection was normal—just her, pale and shaken.
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