Ira stared at the recorder on the floor.

  Its speaker hissed gently, the breathing now replaced by faint murmuring—almost rhythmic, like a lullaby hummed under breath.

  She reached down, hand trembling, and hit stop.

  Silence swallowed the room like a sudden drop in pressure.

  She listened for a full minute. No footsteps. No whispers. Nothing.

  Still, the hair on her arms refused to lie flat.

  She decided she had to get out—if only for a few minutes. Clear her head.

  The moment she opened the door, the cold struck her harder than before.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The mist was thicker now, pressing up against the buildings like a living thing.

  She wrapped her scarf around her face and stepped into the main square.

  The villagers were gone.

  Every house shuttered. No smoke. No sound. No sign of the group she’d seen earlier.

  Except one thing.

  In the center of the square, on a cracked stone platform, a rusted bell hung by fraying rope.

  And just beneath it, someone had placed a mirror.

  Its glass was fractured, webbed with hairline cracks—but somehow, it still reflected clearly.

  She caught her own image. Pale. Shaken.

  But something was wrong.

  In the reflection, her coat pocket bulged outward—though in reality, she felt nothing inside it.

  She reached in.

  Not the note. Not her map.

  A smooth, cold stone sat in her palm. Black, almost glassy.

  Where had it come from?

  She looked up at the mirror again.

  Now, she wasn’t alone in it.