Syra awoke on the floor of the ruined estate, the shattered remains of the mirror around her. Dawn was breaking through the windows. Her body ached, her eyes swollen, but she was alive.

The house was quiet. Still.

She stood, unsteady, and saw her reflection in a shard of glass. It was no longer haunted. She still carried pain, yes - but now it had shape. Purpose. Direction.

As she stepped outside, the wind carried a faint whisper: not a taunt, not a warning, but a benediction.

"You are the mirror now. May you protect all mothers and heal their unspoken trauma."

And Syra walked into the morning - not free of her past, but no longer chained by it.