Morning came late in the Umeziri estate.
The sun did rise—technically—but the house seemed to resist it. The curtains never let light through. The mirrors remained covered. And the staff moved like shadows.
Zina woke up alone.
Kain hadn't entered the bedroom. Not once.
There was a tray of untouched breakfast by the door. Eggs, toast, black tea. Still warm.
But it wasn't the food that caught her eye.
It was the mirror.
Uncovered.
She stood slowly, robe sliding off her shoulder. The vanity mirror was no longer veiled. It gleamed quietly—too clean, too still.
She approached.
At first, she only saw herself.
But then… she didn't.
Behind her reflection, the room was different.
Colder. Older. Covered in ivy and ash.
The chandelier was missing.
The walls were cracked.
The bed was broken.
She spun around in real life.
Everything looked normal.
But in the mirror… it was ruined.
This isn't just a mirror, she realized. It's memory.
She leaned in closer.
That's when the reflection moved.
But she didn't.
Her hands were still, but the Zina in the mirror tilted her head. Slightly. Slowly.
Like it had just noticed her watching.
Zina gasped and stepped back.
The reflection smiled.
Not sweetly.
Not kindly.
Like it knew something she didn't.
A knock on the door snapped her back.
She turned—heart pounding.
When she looked again, the mirror was covered. Just like before.
Laila stood in the doorway, unreadable as always.
"Come. Your husband is waiting."
🕯️ The East Wing
This was her first time seeing it during the day—if it could be called that.
The hallway was long and windowless. The paintings were different here: all women, all regal, all unsmiling.
Zina paused in front of one.
A woman in a black gown, standing by the same iron door Zina had seen the night before.
She looked almost like…
No. It couldn't be.
"Who is she?" Zina asked.
Laila didn't look up. "The first wife."
Zina felt a cold shiver crawl up her spine. "What happened to her?"
"She opened the mirror," Laila said simply. "And forgot who she was."
Zina couldn't breathe for a moment. The corridor seemed to close in around her, every painting suddenly watching her with silent, painted eyes. She turned back toward the mirror room in her mind, wondering if the woman in the glass was the first wife—or if she was something else entirely. The sigil on her palm pulsed again, not painfully, but like a warning. Like something buried was waking up. And Zina knew, without a shadow of doubt, that whatever this house was hiding… it hadn't even begun to show its true face.