The mirror seemed alive in the flickering candlelight. Vivian could feel its presence in the room—its heavy, unrelenting pull—like a thousand invisible strings were tethered to her. She had restored dozens of artifacts in her career, some older than this one, some far more intricate. But none had ever unnerved her like this.
"Do you often hire restorers for cursed objects?" she asked, attempting to mask the tremor in her voice with sarcasm.
Sebastian smirked faintly but didn't respond. Instead, he walked to the far corner of the room and poured a glass of amber liquid from a crystal decanter. His movements were deliberate, calm, as if he were trying to avoid stirring the air around the mirror.
"Whiskey?" he asked, holding the glass toward her.
Vivian shook her head. "I don't drink on the job."
His eyes gleamed with amusement as he sipped. "You might reconsider, given the nature of this particular job."
Her irritation flared. "Look, Mr. Veyne, if you brought me here to scare me off, you've wasted your time. I've dealt with plenty of so-called 'haunted' artifacts before. The stories are always the same—local legends, tragic deaths, curses passed through whispers. But in the end, they're just stories. The mirror is old, yes, but it's still just glass and stone. I'm here to do a job, and I intend to finish it."
Sebastian's smile faded. He stepped closer, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by something far colder. "Tell me, Miss Stone, have you ever questioned why you're so good at your work?"
The question caught her off guard. "Excuse me?"
"Your reputation precedes you. You've restored pieces others have abandoned as unsalvageable. But why is that? Why do your hands always seem to bring back what's been lost?"
Vivian stiffened. "Talent. Training. Years of experience."
"And luck?" he asked, his tone casual but his gaze unyielding.
Her jaw tightened. "I don't believe in luck."
"Then you should consider starting."
Before she could respond, he turned and left the room, leaving her alone with the mirror.
Vivian let out a slow, shaky breath. She hadn't realized she'd been holding it. Her pulse was still racing, though she couldn't decide if it was from Sebastian's words or the oppressive presence of the mirror.
She approached it cautiously, setting her restoration kit on the table beside it. Up close, the carvings along the frame were even more intricate than she'd imagined. Twisting vines intertwined with the shapes of serpents, their eyes made of tiny, glinting rubies. She traced a finger along one of the patterns, marveling at the craftsmanship.
"Glass and stone," she whispered to herself. But as her fingers hovered near the surface of the mirror, she hesitated. There was something wrong about it—something she couldn't quite name.
"Just start," she muttered, shaking off the unease.
Vivian unpacked her tools and began her work. She dusted the frame, her brush revealing the deep onyx sheen of the carvings. But the glass itself resisted her touch. No matter how much she cleaned, it remained opaque, swallowing the light instead of reflecting it.
The more she worked, the stranger the room seemed to grow. The shadows cast by the candles seemed longer than they should have been, stretching toward her like reaching fingers. And the silence—thick and heavy—felt as though it were pressing against her ears.
And then she saw it.
At first, she thought it was a trick of the light. But as she leaned closer, her breath fogging the surface of the glass, there it was again—a flicker of movement in the mirror.
Her reflection wasn't moving.
Vivian froze, her heart hammering in her chest. The woman in the mirror—her—was standing completely still, even as Vivian leaned forward to inspect it.
Then the reflection tilted its head.
Vivian stumbled back, nearly knocking over her stool. Her reflection remained in the glass, head cocked, staring at her with unblinking eyes.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "This isn't real."
She turned to look behind her, at the room itself, as if expecting someone else to be there. But the room was empty, save for the flickering candles. When she looked back at the mirror, her reflection was normal.
Vivian swallowed hard. She reached for the glass again, her fingers trembling. This time, when her fingertips brushed the surface, it felt wrong—too cold, too alive. The chill seemed to seep into her skin, spreading through her veins like ice.
A whisper drifted through the room.
"Vivian…"
Her name, spoken so faintly she almost thought she'd imagined it. But the sound wasn't in her ears—it was in her mind, curling around her thoughts like smoke.
"Who's there?" she demanded, her voice louder than she intended.
No response.
Vivian stepped back from the mirror, her chest rising and falling rapidly. This wasn't just some broken artifact. This was something else—something worse.
She grabbed her tools and shoved them into her bag, ready to leave the room. But as she turned toward the door, it slammed shut on its own.
The whisper came again, louder this time.
"Vivian… you're not supposed to be here."
To be continued...