The wind had claws that day, sharp and biting, pulling at the skin with the kind of cold that made you question whether you were truly alive. It howled through the trees, the sound scraping at Syra's nerves like fingernails on glass. The scent of wet earth mixed with a faint trace of burning wood - strange, for there hadn't been a fire nearby. Yet, it lingered, twisting through the air, clinging to her senses. Syra stood on the creaking porch of her cabin, staring at the empty path before her.
The cabin sat perched at the edge of a clearing, half-swallowed by the woods. The once-bright paint on the wood had long since faded, and the porch was sagging from years of neglect. She hadn't expected company, hadn't invited anyone. And yet, there it was, resting neatly on the doorstep - a letter, untouched by time or rain.
Handmade paper. Stitched edges. The wax seal pressed with a symbol - a swirling spiral of interlocking roots. She hadn't seen it in years, hadn't dared to remember it. The Mawroot Spiral. It was a symbol of things she'd buried long ago, a connection to a past filled with rituals, lies, and grief.
Syra's fingers trembled as she picked it up. The weight of it in her hand was too heavy, like an anchor pulling her back to something she had long ago forsaken. She stood frozen, the wind biting at her skin as her breath quickened. The words from that time in her life flashed through her mind: Mirrorkeeper, Mother Ash, Room 327.
With a soft whisper of a prayer, Syra broke the seal. The letter was short, but the ink shimmered, wet as though freshly written, and darker than it should be. As her eyes scanned the message, her heart stopped.
"Room 327 waits, Mirrorkeeper. Come home."
A chill crawled up her spine. She stared at the words, the blood rushing to her head, her chest tightening with dread. The last time she had seen those words, it had been the final night before her daughter - her beautiful, lost daughter - disappeared into the flames. The night that shattered everything.
Her pulse quickened, the letter burning in her hands. Her throat closed up as her mind tried to block out the memories. No. It can't be real. It's just a trick.
But deep down, she knew. There was no way this letter had found her by accident. Whatever this was, it was calling her back to Briarwood, to a place she'd long tried to forget. The thought of going back, confronting whatever lingered there, made her stomach churn.
But the choice was no longer hers.
She turned, heart pounding, and entered the cabin. The world felt wrong. The silence in the air seemed louder than it ever had been. She sat at her altar, the candles long extinguished, and lit them again with trembling hands. They flickered, casting long shadows along the walls. She could almost hear whispers in the corners - memories and regrets that had waited patiently to resurface.
The cabin was still. Her thoughts were a blur. She couldn't shake the feeling that this was more than a message. It was a summons.
She needed to go. For the past. For the truth.
But as she stared at the letter, the words burned into her mind: Mirrorkeeper. Come home.
The cabin sat perched at the edge of a clearing, half-swallowed by the woods. The once-bright paint on the wood had long since faded, and the porch was sagging from years of neglect. She hadn't expected company, hadn't invited anyone. And yet, there it was, resting neatly on the doorstep - a letter, untouched by time or rain.
Handmade paper. Stitched edges. The wax seal pressed with a symbol - a swirling spiral of interlocking roots. She hadn't seen it in years, hadn't dared to remember it. The Mawroot Spiral. It was a symbol of things she'd buried long ago, a connection to a past filled with rituals, lies, and grief.
Syra's fingers trembled as she picked it up. The weight of it in her hand was too heavy, like an anchor pulling her back to something she had long ago forsaken. She stood frozen, the wind biting at her skin as her breath quickened. The words from that time in her life flashed through her mind: Mirrorkeeper, Mother Ash, Room 327.
With a soft whisper of a prayer, Syra broke the seal. The letter was short, but the ink shimmered, wet as though freshly written, and darker than it should be. As her eyes scanned the message, her heart stopped.
"Room 327 waits, Mirrorkeeper. Come home."
A chill crawled up her spine. She stared at the words, the blood rushing to her head, her chest tightening with dread. The last time she had seen those words, it had been the final night before her daughter - her beautiful, lost daughter - disappeared into the flames. The night that shattered everything.
Her pulse quickened, the letter burning in her hands. Her throat closed up as her mind tried to block out the memories. No. It can't be real. It's just a trick.
But deep down, she knew. There was no way this letter had found her by accident. Whatever this was, it was calling her back to Briarwood, to a place she'd long tried to forget. The thought of going back, confronting whatever lingered there, made her stomach churn.
But the choice was no longer hers.
She turned, heart pounding, and entered the cabin. The world felt wrong. The silence in the air seemed louder than it ever had been. She sat at her altar, the candles long extinguished, and lit them again with trembling hands. They flickered, casting long shadows along the walls. She could almost hear whispers in the corners - memories and regrets that had waited patiently to resurface.
The cabin was still. Her thoughts were a blur. She couldn't shake the feeling that this was more than a message. It was a summons.
She needed to go. For the past. For the truth.
But as she stared at the letter, the words burned into her mind: Mirrorkeeper. Come home.
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