Julia stands in the middle of the hallway. The air in the house is different from the air outside—heavier, thicker, almost sticky. The kind that soaks into her skin and seeps deeper, into her thoughts.
The flashlight trembles in her hand, though she's never been one to be afraid of the dark.
But here…
the darkness isn't empty.
Darkness in Cliff House *looks*.
--
The door, which was ajar, creaks as she pushes it open with her fingers.
The room beyond doesn't fit with the rest of the house.
It's too clean. Too orderly. As if time hasn't touched it.
It's unsettling—especially considering the rest of the property looks abandoned for years.
The flashlight's beam falls on the metal-framed bed. The sheets are perfectly smooth, as if someone had just gotten up and straightened the duvet with military precision.
But something else worries Julia most.
**The mirror.**
It stands in the corner of the room, large, its frame covered in delicate grooves.
Matte.
As if covered in a thin layer of smoke.
And yet Julia is certain that something is missing.
She glances around the room.
The wardrobe.
The desk.
The chair.
The bed.
The mirror.
Ordinary, right?
She goes deeper.
And only when she stands in front of the mirror does she realize what's wrong.
She can't see her reflection.
Only... darkness.
A thick, intense darkness that seems to draw her gaze in.
Julia frowns.
“It’s just dirt,” she mutters, more to herself than anything else.
She steps closer.
She touches the surface.
That’s when she hears it:
**breath.**
Not her own.
Behind her.
She turns sharply—the flashlight sweeps across the room—empty.
Only her.
And the silence, too loud.
--
She runs her hand across the cold glass, trying to wipe away the layer of dull tarnish.
And then the mirror reacts.
He doesn’t touch it with his hand.
It doesn’t crack.
It doesn’t flash.
It… **breathes.**
The surface moves gently, as if something were alive beneath it.
Julia instinctively withdraws her hand.
“It’s impossible…” she whispers.
But when she looks again, she sees movement.
A shadow.
Deep into the mirror, as if someone was standing there… right next to her, only on the other side.
The shape of a silhouette.
Tall.
Very dark.
Motionless.
Julia freezes.
The shadow shifts her head.
And then the mirror—still in a strange, silent tremor until now—shows her something else.
A face.
A woman's face.
Julia recognizes her in an instant.
Because she's seen her many times.
In the photos she kept in her wallet.
On the tombstone she cried over.
In dreams that have returned to her over the years.
**Natalia.**
But not as she remembered.
The one in the mirror looks as if she's drowning, as if something were pulling her down, as if her eyes were begging for help that no one could provide in time.
Her sister's lips move silently.
Julia takes a step forward, unconsciously, as if hypnotized.
She reaches for the mirror.
**And then the room changes temperature.**
From 18 degrees to something like frost in a second.
Her breath becomes visible in the air.
And her fingers, as they touch the mirror's surface, stick to it.
The darkness on the other side begins to move faster.
The shadow expands.
Something *knocks* from within.
One.
Twice.
Three.
Julia feels her heart stop beating.
Then she hears a whisper.
Right in her ear.
**—Don't come back here, Julia…**
It's Natalia's voice.
The one who's dead.
Julia stumbles backward until she bumps into a chair, knocking it over with a bang. The flashlight rolls across the floor and stops by the bed.
The mirror is dull again.
Silent.
Motionless.
Dead.
As if nothing had happened.
Julia shivers.
She gasps for air.
But one thing is certain:
**Natalia tried to warn her.**
Only... about what?
And why did the mirror show her the truth—or a caricature of herself—right now?
And above all:
Can Julia trust what she saw?
--
As she leaves the room, the door closes behind her.
Quietly.
With a distinct click of the lock.
As if the room... is satisfied.
And as if it doesn't want anyone else to see what Julia has just seen.
And from deeper in the house—from the hallway leading upstairs—she hears another whisper.
This time, not her sister's.
Low.
Old.
Hoarse.
**—You're finally back.**
---
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