I Loved Her. Then I Killed Her Dreams

The cracked mirror stayed silent the next day.

No fog.

No words.

No Girl.

Just that feather—still white, still cold—now tucked away in Soren's desk drawer like a secret he was too afraid to tell.

Like a sin he hadn't committed, but still carried the guilt for.

It sat there under his textbooks like a memory pretending to be a relic. Like it was waiting. Watching. Breathing.

He touched it once.

Only once.

And it burned.

Not with fire—

But with cold.

That unbearable, almost holy kind of cold.

The kind that doesn't just sting, but bites.

Like ice that presses into your nerves until they forget what warmth ever was.

Like grief that numbs you first… and then crushes you without warning.

Like the silence that follows after someone says your name for the last time—and never again.

His fingertips still ached from that contact.

Still tingled in phantom frost whenever he looked at the drawer.

He hadn't opened it since. Couldn't.

Because something about that feather felt… alive.

Not in a heartbeat way.

In a revenge way.

Like it wasn't just a memory. It was a reminder.

A message.

Or a promise.

After that, he started waking at strange hours.

3:33 AM.

4:04 AM.

5:55 AM.

Always those times. Always repeating.

Palindromes. Mirror numbers.

Time twisted in on itself like a loop of tape stuck on the same second.

It felt like the universe was stuttering.

Like something beyond the veil was trying to speak—but only in code.

A broken Morse tapped into the bones of the night.

Each time, he would sit up in bed.

His breath shallow.

His heart knocking like fists behind ribs.

The air always felt different in those moments—denser. Hungrier.

Like the room itself was exhaling frost.

And each time, he looked into the mirror.

And each time… it looked back.

Not with a face.

Not even with a shimmer or flicker of movement.

Just presence.

An aware silence.

A stillness too focused to be empty.

Like it was studying him.

Counting him.

Memorizing him.

It felt like something behind the glass was learning how to be him.

Like it was testing what it meant to wear his skin.

He once held his breath and stared at it for twenty full seconds.

And for one terrifying moment…

…his reflection didn't blink when he did.

At school, everything looked normal. Too normal.

Same tiled hallways.

Same sunbeams slicing through dirty windows, catching dust like floating secrets.

Same announcements—buzzing, half-audible—like ghosts trapped in the PA system.

But Yena had changed.

It was subtle.

So quiet that most wouldn't notice.

But he did.

Her laugh still floated—soft, effortless, music-box sweet.

Her voice still dripped like velvet honey.

Her posture still dripped confidence like a slow leak of poison.

But her smile—

That smile.

It would pause.

Just for a fraction of a second.

Like a trapdoor that creaked open and shut in a blink.

Like a coded message only the haunted could read.

She was playing a role.

A flawless one.

But sometimes, the actress forgot she was on stage.

There was a moment in chemistry class.

When the teacher mentioned "ghost reactions," and Yena looked straight at him.

Not at the board.

Not at her notebook.

Straight at him.

And winked.

Once, during lunch, she leaned close to him—casual, careless—and said:

"If a ghost wanted you to remember her… what do you think she'd do?"

His fork slipped from his fingers.

It clattered against his tray. Loud. Final.

Like it was trying to run.

His hands trembled.

He hadn't told her.

Not about the feather.

Not about the mirror.

Not about the girl with the storm in her eyes.

And still—Yena smiled.

That same old Yena smile.

The smile everyone trusted.

The one that could sell secrets as lullabies.

The one you could follow into a burning building—and not realize it was an execution.

Eyes glowing. Lips barely parted.

Like she knew something he didn't.

Like she was winning.

And he hadn't even realized they were playing.

That night, the humming came back.

But this time… it wasn't soft.

It wasn't faraway, like lullabies underwater.

It wasn't mourning.

It was furious.

It growled. It surged.

Like a symphony of rage with no conductor.

The mirror shook in its frame, rattling like teeth in a dying mouth.

The window shuddered.

The lightbulb above him twitched so violently it looked like it might explode—

throwing shadows that spun like spider legs across the walls.

Soren stood in front of it.

Frozen. Trembling.

His fists clenched so hard, his knuckles looked bloodless.

He stared at the mirror like it might eat him alive.

His voice barely escaped him.

A whisper. A prayer. A sin.

"I missed you."

And the mirror… breathed.

It exhaled cold.

It inhaled the room's silence.

His breath fogged instantly.

His eyelashes crusted with ice.

And slowly—achingly—letters began to form in the frost:

"She's lying."

He didn't ask who.

He didn't need to.

The next day, he asked Yena something simple.

"Where did you live before this?"

She blinked. Once.

Too slowly.

Her lashes swept like blades.

"Why?"

He tried to keep his tone even. Casual.

"I just want to know."

She smiled again.

That same smile.

But this time, it was all teeth. No heart.

"Somewhere cold," she said. "Somewhere lonely."

She said it too fast.

Too perfect.

Like a line rehearsed in front of a mirror.

Not one you lived. One you lied.

That night, sleep didn't come.

He sat upright for hours. Watching the mirror.

Staring until his eyes burned and his reflection stopped matching him.

Stopped blinking when he blinked.

Stopped breathing when he breathed.

No fog.

No voice.

No humming.

Until—4:04 AM.

Right on cue.

Scratching.

But not the kind you'd expect.

Not fingernails dragging over glass.

Not rats scuttling in walls.

No—knuckles.

Knocking.

Knocking from inside the mirror.

He rose slowly. Every inch of movement felt like betrayal to his own fear.

Like walking toward a coffin you knew your name was written on.

He stepped closer.

Then—crack.

A piece of the mirror slid down.

Behind it… wasn't silver.

Not glass.

Wood.

Old. Dark. Warped.

Splintered like it had been clawed at. Like something had tried to dig through—from the inside.

Soren's breath hitched.

The mirror wasn't a mirror anymore.

It was a door.

The next morning, he followed her.

Not The Girl.

Yena.

He tailed her down winding halls, ducked behind corners, timed his steps with perfect silence.

She didn't hear him. Didn't look back.

She turned down a hallway no one used anymore.

One the janitors didn't bother cleaning.

Just dust. Pipes. Silence.

Except her.

Room 213.

It should've been locked.

Was locked.

Had always been locked.

But she had a key.

And she used it.

She slipped inside like she'd done it a hundred times.

He waited outside.

Ten minutes.

Fifteen.

Then he knocked.

Silence.

He opened it.

The door moaned open like it hadn't been touched in decades.

Dust rose in clouds.

Cobwebs shimmered like chandeliers made of memory.

And then—

The painting.

Huge. Heavy.

Covered in a gray sheet like a corpse in a morgue.

He reached out.

Fingers trembling.

Pulse roaring in his ears.

He pulled it off.

And froze.

It was her.

The Girl.

Alive.

Smiling.

A student. A person. Not a ghost.

Uniform crisp.

Hair braided.

ID lanyard swinging from her neck like a noose made of lies.

And next to her—

Yena.

Grinning.

One arm wrapped around the girl.

Not like a best friend.

Not like a protector.

Like a hunter.

Soren stumbled back.

The door slammed shut behind him.

He spun around—yanked the handle—

Locked.

His breath fogged.

Not from fear.

From cold.

Then came the whispers.

Not from air.

From walls.

From wood.

From the bloody cracks in the floorboards.

"You forgot me."

"You left."

"She was never your friend."

He screamed.

The lightbulb burst above him.

The painting began to bleed.

From the girl's eyes.

Her mouth.

From the place where Yena's hand had touched her.

Then—glass shattered.

From across the room.

The mirror split again.

The feather returned.

Floating. Glowing.

White.

Then black.

Then—

Darkness.

When they found him, he was curled on the floor of Room 213.

Unmoving. Pale.

Whispering a name no one recognized.

"Aurela."

After that… he stopped speaking.

Catatonic, the doctors said.

But Yena came.

She brought flowers.

Sat beside his bed like a lover from a dream.

Held his hand in hers.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "You weren't supposed to find it."

He flinched.

His eyes flew open.

He tried to yank his hand away—

It was frozen.

Not metaphorically.

His skin was turning blue.

Her hand stayed warm.

But the air around her…

Wasn't.

"I can make it go away," she murmured.

"If you want. You don't have to remember. You don't have to hurt."

Then she leaned in.

Pressed her lips to his forehead.

And the lights—

died.

That night, he dreamed.

Of her.

Aurela.

But this time—she wasn't in the mirror.

She wasn't dead.

She was trapped.

Not beside Yena.

Inside her.

Screaming.

Every time Yena smiled.

He woke up shaking.

His palm burned.

He looked down.

Someone had carved something there. While he slept.

Just three letters.

Burned in blood.

A U R