The Mirror Returns to Dust

Morning broke over the Lin estate with the sound of dripping water and the scent of wet earth. A weak sun strained through the mist, casting long pale fingers over the scorched rooftops and shattered lanterns.

The peach tree in the eastern garden stood oddly vibrant, blooming out of season. Beneath it, the soil had been disturbed, its surface freshly turned and damp, though no one had seen who did the digging.

No birds sang.

At the gates of the ruined mansion stood an oxcart. Beside it, wrapped in an old woolen shawl, stood Liu Ruyan's mother—aged, trembling, eyes swollen from sleepless nights and endless fear.

Beside her stood a girl in a crimson cloak, her veil lowered, her hands clasped calmly at her front. She looked healthy. Pale, but serene. Too serene.

When a servant attempted to help her onto the cart, her touch made him recoil—cold as ice.

He looked up at her, puzzled. She tilted her head ever so slightly beneath the veil, and though he saw nothing of her face, he felt as if something behind that silk was… smiling.

They rode away as the sun rose.

The road curved along the riverbanks. The mansion disappeared behind them, brick by brick, memory by memory. The old widow looked not once behind her. She dared not.

The girl beside her sat still the entire journey. Not once did she speak.

Only once did the widow murmur, without looking over:

"We're free now… aren't we?"

The girl did not answer.

But the mirror in her lap—wrapped tightly in bridal silk—quivered faintly.

Back in the Lin estate, under the peach tree, something pulsed beneath the soil.

And in the dressing chamber of the west wing, long abandoned, the cracked bronze mirror still sat—not buried, as the servants had claimed. Its twin.

Its surface was no longer bright, but dim as a pool of old blood.

If one dared to peer closely—very closely—they would see a face trapped within.

Ruyan's face.

Pressed against the inner glass.

Her eyes wide, unblinking. Her lips frozen mid-scream. Her palms flat against the surface, as though begging to be let out—or warning someone not to look too deep.

She could no longer scream.

She could only wait.

They say the mirror remains there still.

Hidden beneath floorboards, behind a forgotten drawer, wrapped in silks that have long since rotted. And on nights when the wind shifts and the trees hush their leaves, some say they hear it:

A voice. A whisper.

"I can help you…"

A promise.

Or a curse.

Waiting.

End of Book