The figure in the mirror stood just behind her—too close.

  Ira spun around, fists clenched.

  Nothing.

  But in the reflection, it was still there.

  Tall. Thin. Dressed in tattered white, like funeral cloth soaked in ash. Its face was obscured by dark smudges, as if the mirror itself refused to reflect it clearly.

  Its hand reached toward her reflection’s shoulder.

  Ira took a step back.

  In the mirror, the figure stayed frozen. Its fingers hovering, but not touching.

  She didn’t know whether to smash the glass or run.

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  Instead, she blinked.

  And it was gone.

  The square behind her was empty again—just stone, fog, and silence.

  She checked her pocket. The black stone was gone, too.

  Only the note remained: Do not look at them when they gather.

  Heart hammering, she walked quickly toward the tall house at the far end of the village.

  Three floors, as the man had said. Indigo paint clinging in strips like peeling skin.

  A red thread hung across the doorway, woven with what looked like dried bees.

  She knocked.

  No answer.

  She knocked again—louder.

  Still nothing.

  Just as she turned to leave, the door opened with a low groan.

  No one on the other side.

  Inside, a dim hallway lined with mirrors.

  Mirrors in a village that seemed terrified of them.

  She stepped in, unsure whether she was entering someone's house—or a trap designed just for her.