The Third Name

The attic was still.

The fireflies were gone.

Anna crouched over the open box, the bloody tooth warm in her hand, her reflection fractured in the mirror beside it. But it wasn't her reflection anymore.

It was Annora.

And she was moving.

Mouth still stitched. But her eyes—Anna's eyes—were wide and bright, as if they hadn't blinked in centuries. The thread quivered. Loosened.

Then snapped.

One by one, the stitches split, falling from her lips like ash. Annora sat upright inside the mirror, mouth trembling, skin pale and smooth like wax that had never known sun.

And she spoke.

"You were never the only one," she whispered. "You were just the one they kept."

Anna staggered backward. Her hands shook. "You're not real."

But she was already answering. "I was born just like you. Same cry. Same breath. But I remembered the house."

Annora stepped closer inside the mirror, the glass rippling like water. Her voice was soft, but each word cut like a key in a lock.

"They took my name. Buried it beneath yours. But Dorma doesn't forget. Dorma doesn't forgive. Dorma just waits."

The attic groaned around them. A low hum beneath the boards—like bones shifting in a coffin. The mirror pulsed with light, and Anna saw behind Annora now:

The Womb Room.

Present day.

Alive.

The crib still there. But now it was empty.

Anna looked back down at the bloody tooth in her palm.

It wasn't just Annora's.

It was hers too.

A twin name. A twin soul. A twin curse.

Annora's mouth curled into a soft, mournful smile. "One of us must go back. One of us must stay. But the house needs a keeper."

Anna's voice caught in her throat. "Why me?"

"Because you came back. Because you opened the journal. Because you burned the name."

"Whose name?"

Annora tilted her head.

"Mine."

And the attic snapped.

Floorboards split, beams screamed, wind howled through the mirror's frame—and Anna was sucked forward, into the glass, through it—

into the Womb Room.

She landed on stone.

Alone.

The crib beside her.

And behind her—no mirror.

Only stone.

And the walls breathed.

Back in the attic, the mirror sat still again.

Inside it, a girl.

Not Annora.

Anna.

Now silent.

Now watching.

Now waiting.

Now free from the mirror, Annora walks the halls that once forgot her name. But the house remembers. And it's hungry for what's been missing.

Through Annora's eyes for the first time in her long, half-lived existence, Annora felt the weight of air on skin. Real skin. The attic light pressed warm against her cheeks, and the dust no longer passed through her like a dream.

She was here.

And Anna was not.

Annora stepped from the mirror with quiet grace, barefoot on the old floorboards. They whispered beneath her soles—not in protest, but in recognition.

The rightful daughter has returned.

The house didn't creak anymore.

It purred.

She moved down the hallway, fingers brushing along the wallpaper. Her fingertips left faint trails—like soot or ash—marking where the veil had been thin for too long.

Each room she passed responded.

Lights flickered on.

Doors swung open, revealing spaces Anna had never been allowed to see.

A nursery with no windows, lined with a dozen cribs—each empty.

A study with books written in languages that bled.

A vanity mirror where reflections blinked before you did.

Annora's mouth curled in a small smile.

She remembered everything.

The lullabies Evelyn hummed through tears.The way Dorma whispered from beneath the cradle. The ritual meant to spare one child—and discard the other.

Only, it hadn't worked.

Erased didn't mean gone.

Forgotten didn't mean quiet.

Now, Annora stood in the parlor where Anna had burned the journal. She knelt beside the hearth, fingers reaching into the cold ashes.

There—intact.

A single page.

Unburned. Unmarked.

It held one name in red:

MOTHER.

Annora's smile faded.

The fire in the hearth flickered to life without a flame.

Behind her, a voice whispered:

"I made you safe."

Annora turned.

Evelyn stood there.

Or a version of her. Shadow-faint. Memory-thin. But aware.

"I chose her because she would forget," Evelyn said, tears gleaming like ink. "You remembered. That made you dangerous."

Annora didn't speak. She only held up the page, the word MOTHER bleeding across her palm.

Evelyn stepped back, afraid.

"I saved her," she whispered.

And for the first time, Annora replied—not as a memory, but as a daughter.

"And you left me to rot."

The room went dark.

The house shuddered.

And every floorboard in Dorma's spine cried out:

She is home.

Annora is no longer a whisper in the walls.

She is awake.

And the house is unfolding itself for her.

The Hollow Wing, Annora passed through corridors that didn't exist for Anna.

Not on any blueprint.

Not in any journal.

A left turn where there should be none. A staircase rising at a strange angle. The house stretched now—not crumbling, but growing—welcoming her deeper.

She entered the Hollow Wing.

It had no ceiling.

No sky.

Just a black void above, like the night had crept inside and laid down to sleep.

The walls here were lined with doors.

Each one different.

A child's bedroom door, paint peeling in pastel pink.

A hospital door, with a locked glass window smeared in red.

An iron door that dripped cold and groaned when you neared it.

Annora stepped past them all—until she found hers.

It was the plainest.

Unfinished wood. Splinters at the handle. Carved into its surface: A.

Not Anna.

Not Annora.

Just the beginning.

She opened it.

Inside was a room made of voices.

They didn't echo—they circled, whispering things no one was meant to hear.

A baby's first breath and a mother's sob of regret.

The thud of something being buried alive.

The scraping sound of fingernails on crib wood.

In the center of the room was a chair.

Rocking.

Back and forth.

Empty.

Until she stepped closer.

And saw that it was not empty at all.

A figure sat there, thin and paper-white. No face. Just a blank slate where features should be—folded over like sealed letters.

It held something in its lap: a ledger.

It opened when Annora reached for it, pages turning themselves.

Inside:

Names.

Births.

Deaths.

Transfers.

Next to Anna's name, a faint mark now shimmered:

"Within."

Next to Annora's:

"Released."

And beneath them both:

"Merging imminent."

The ledger slammed shut.

The chair stilled.

And the faceless figure looked up.

It raised one hand.

A question in the air:

Which one do you want to be?

Annora did not answer.

Not yet.

Because deep within her chest—beneath her joy, her rage, her hunger—was a question she hadn't let rise until now.

What if Anna doesn't want to come back?