Mirror In The Attic
Chapter 3
Part 5
She didn't tell Daichi where she was going.
She said she needed air—something simple, evasive. He had smiled and nodded, concern pulling at the corners of his mouth. He always tried to be gentle with her, as if her mind were something that might tear.
But she didn't need kindness.
She needed silence.
Distance.
Answers.
Her feet found their own path, climbing unfamiliar stairs without thought. The manor whispered around her—creaking boards, murmuring floor seams, old locks breathing open without touch.
She didn't question it.
She let the house lead her.
The attic door appeared where there had been wallpaper moments before—shimmering slightly, like a mirage before it settled into shape.
She opened it without fear.
The attic exhaled warmth as she stepped inside.
It wasn't the stuffy heat of disuse, but something curated—thick with the scent of intention. Dried roses. Vanilla musk. Ancient cedar oil soaked into the beams.
The space was expansive, circular. Sunlight slanted through the arched windows like gold spilled through glass. Cloth-draped furniture crowded the room—silent as mourners, unmoving as sleepwalkers caught in daylight.
Everything was quiet. Sacred. Forgotten.
She moved slowly, her fingers trailing the edge of an old chair, then a veil-covered harp, its strings long snapped.
It felt like trespassing.
And yet… not unwelcome.
In the farthest corner, half-concealed behind a toppled armoire and a hatbox tower, she saw the mirror.
It stood over seven feet tall, its frame carved in curling baroque spirals—lilies and ribbons and weeping angels whose wings stretched across the wood like shadows cast in grief.
Black lace covered the surface, thick and opulent, its pattern spidering out like veins.
She stared at it.
For a long moment, she didn't move.
Then—gently, almost reverently—she reached forward and peeled the lace away.
The cloth slid down like old breath. The mirror exhaled.
The glass was not silver.
It was clouded—aged. Pearled over at the edges, like something organic. Or alive.
Her own reflection appeared slowly. Hesitant. As though deciding whether or not to reveal itself.
At first, it was plain.
Yuriko.
Dressed in her black mourning coat. Wind-chapped lips. Tired eyes. One hand at her collar, the other holding the lace she had just removed.
Then—
It shifted.
Just slightly.
The tilt of the head.
The position of her hand.
The gleam of her skin.
She blinked.
The reflection didn't.
The woman in the mirror looked like her—but softer, more luminous. Her hair was pinned back in an unfamiliar style, held by combs she didn't own. Her lips were redder. Her skin powdered to a porcelain glow.
She wore mourning silk. Not her coat. A gown. Formal. Heavy.
She looked… ceremonial.
And her mouth—was smiling.
Only a little.
Enough to suggest permission.
Or pleasure.
And then he appeared.
Maboroshi.
In the mirror, he stood behind her—close enough that his chest pressed against her back. His hands circled her waist, gloved fingers splayed possessively.
His head dipped low.
His mouth hovered just above the curve of her neck.
And her reflection—Yuriko's reflection—tilted her head.
Offered it.
The smile on her lips deepened.
In real life, Yuriko's knees went weak.
She reached out instinctively to touch the mirror's surface.
Her fingers met cool glass.
But the reflection—didn't show the movement.
In the mirror, she remained still.
Waiting.
Smiling.
Maboroshi's mouth hovered—then touched her throat.
Soft. Almost adoring.
Her skin tingled as though touched in waking life.
Her breath hitched.
She closed her eyes.
When she opened them—
The mirror was empty.
No Maboroshi.
No smile.
Just her.
Breathless. Pale. Alone.
She stumbled back, dropping the lace. It coiled on the floor like shed skin.
She touched her neck.
No marks.
Only heat.
And a faint, rising memory—not visual, not even tangible, but bodily.
Like she had once stood in that pose.
Like his hands had once held her that way.
Like her body was remembering faster than her mind.
She wrapped her arms around herself and stepped away from the mirror, pulse fluttering low in her stomach, her breath shallow.
It hadn't been real.
But her skin hadn't known the difference.