The door to Room 327 opened with a soft creak, the kind that seemed to reverberate through her bones. The air inside was thick, heavy with the scent of old wood, dust, and something more - a deeper, more primal odor, like wet stone and decaying earth. It reminded Syra of something she couldn't quite place, a feeling more than a memory. Her skin prickled, goosebumps rising on her arms as she crossed the threshold.
The room before her was dim, lit only by the pale glow of the moon filtering through the cracked blinds. She stepped inside, her shoes making no sound on the worn wooden floor. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling, faded and aged with time, and the ceiling, low and oppressive, seemed to press down on her, as if daring her to stay.
In the center of the room stood an altar - no longer a place of worship, but a place of despair. The altar was simple: a stone slab, cracked and weathered, sitting atop a rusted metal base. It had been covered in a thick layer of dust, the remnants of forgotten rituals scattered across its surface. Candles burned in the corners, their flames flickering weakly as if struggling to stay alive. And at the foot of the altar, a large mirror stood, its frame tarnished and twisted with age.
Syra's gaze fixed on the mirror. She had been here before, she knew it. The glass shimmered faintly, as if alive with some unseen energy. It was not simply a reflection; it was a portal to something darker, something older. She could feel its pull, drawing her in, urging her to come closer.
But Syra hesitated. She had never been a stranger to fear, but this was different. This wasn't the kind of fear she could easily shake off. This was the kind of fear that tore at the fabric of her very soul, making her question everything she had ever believed.
Her breath caught in her throat as she stepped forward, her feet moving slowly, almost against her will. The moment she reached the mirror, the air grew colder, the temperature dropping with each passing second. She could see her breath, a thin mist in the dim light.
As she peered into the glass, her reflection stared back at her - yet not entirely. The Syra in the mirror was different. Her face was paler, her eyes darker, her expression more hollow. But it wasn't just her appearance that had changed. She could feel the mirror reaching into her, pulling at the threads of her past, unearthing memories long buried.
The reflection of herself in the mirror began to speak, her voice low and rasping, as if it had come from a distant place.
"Rite One," it intoned, each word heavy with meaning. "The Memory of Water."
Syra recoiled. The words struck her like a blow, memories flashing through her mind in quick succession. A storm. A drowning. The sound of her daughter's cries as she slipped beneath the surface. The fire that consumed them both, the smoke that choked her, the ashes that had scattered to the wind. The grief, the loss, the guilt. It all came rushing back in a flood that threatened to drown her once again.
She closed her eyes, the tears already forming. She had been running from this moment for so long, trying to bury it beneath layers of time, of distance. But the mirror wouldn't let her forget.
"Let me go," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I can't do this. I can't face it again."
The reflection did not respond, only stared back at her with those hollow eyes. But the mirror began to pulse, its surface rippling like the surface of water disturbed by an unseen hand. The pulse grew stronger, louder, until it felt as though the entire room was vibrating with the force of it. She could hear the faint sound of water sloshing, the distant crash of waves against the shore.
And then, it happened.
The mirror seemed to draw her in, pulling her forward. She stumbled, her hands reaching out to steady herself against the edge of the stone altar. But the pull was too strong. She fell, her body tipping forward into the mirror, her hand outstretched as if trying to grasp onto something, anything.
And then, she was submerged. Not in water, but in a memory.
She saw herself as a child again, standing by the edge of a river. The water was cold, its surface shimmering under the bright sun. But there, in the shallows, was her daughter - young, innocent, laughing as she splashed in the water.
Syra reached for her, calling her name, but her daughter didn't hear. The child turned, her smile fading, her eyes darkening. And then, as if from nowhere, a storm cloud appeared in the sky, rolling in with an unnatural speed.
The wind howled.
The water rose.
Her daughter screamed.
The memory twisted, contorted, and suddenly Syra was back, standing on the edge of the riverbank, watching her daughter disappear beneath the water. She dove in after her, but it was too late. The waves pulled her under. The world went dark. And she couldn't save her.
The memory ended.
Syra gasped for air, her body trembling violently as she pulled herself away from the mirror. The room was still, but the echoes of the vision clung to her like the remnants of a nightmare. Her heart pounded in her chest as she stumbled back toward the door, her legs unsteady beneath her.
She wasn't alone anymore.
The room before her was dim, lit only by the pale glow of the moon filtering through the cracked blinds. She stepped inside, her shoes making no sound on the worn wooden floor. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling, faded and aged with time, and the ceiling, low and oppressive, seemed to press down on her, as if daring her to stay.
In the center of the room stood an altar - no longer a place of worship, but a place of despair. The altar was simple: a stone slab, cracked and weathered, sitting atop a rusted metal base. It had been covered in a thick layer of dust, the remnants of forgotten rituals scattered across its surface. Candles burned in the corners, their flames flickering weakly as if struggling to stay alive. And at the foot of the altar, a large mirror stood, its frame tarnished and twisted with age.
Syra's gaze fixed on the mirror. She had been here before, she knew it. The glass shimmered faintly, as if alive with some unseen energy. It was not simply a reflection; it was a portal to something darker, something older. She could feel its pull, drawing her in, urging her to come closer.
But Syra hesitated. She had never been a stranger to fear, but this was different. This wasn't the kind of fear she could easily shake off. This was the kind of fear that tore at the fabric of her very soul, making her question everything she had ever believed.
Her breath caught in her throat as she stepped forward, her feet moving slowly, almost against her will. The moment she reached the mirror, the air grew colder, the temperature dropping with each passing second. She could see her breath, a thin mist in the dim light.
As she peered into the glass, her reflection stared back at her - yet not entirely. The Syra in the mirror was different. Her face was paler, her eyes darker, her expression more hollow. But it wasn't just her appearance that had changed. She could feel the mirror reaching into her, pulling at the threads of her past, unearthing memories long buried.
The reflection of herself in the mirror began to speak, her voice low and rasping, as if it had come from a distant place.
"Rite One," it intoned, each word heavy with meaning. "The Memory of Water."
Syra recoiled. The words struck her like a blow, memories flashing through her mind in quick succession. A storm. A drowning. The sound of her daughter's cries as she slipped beneath the surface. The fire that consumed them both, the smoke that choked her, the ashes that had scattered to the wind. The grief, the loss, the guilt. It all came rushing back in a flood that threatened to drown her once again.
She closed her eyes, the tears already forming. She had been running from this moment for so long, trying to bury it beneath layers of time, of distance. But the mirror wouldn't let her forget.
"Let me go," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I can't do this. I can't face it again."
The reflection did not respond, only stared back at her with those hollow eyes. But the mirror began to pulse, its surface rippling like the surface of water disturbed by an unseen hand. The pulse grew stronger, louder, until it felt as though the entire room was vibrating with the force of it. She could hear the faint sound of water sloshing, the distant crash of waves against the shore.
And then, it happened.
The mirror seemed to draw her in, pulling her forward. She stumbled, her hands reaching out to steady herself against the edge of the stone altar. But the pull was too strong. She fell, her body tipping forward into the mirror, her hand outstretched as if trying to grasp onto something, anything.
And then, she was submerged. Not in water, but in a memory.
She saw herself as a child again, standing by the edge of a river. The water was cold, its surface shimmering under the bright sun. But there, in the shallows, was her daughter - young, innocent, laughing as she splashed in the water.
Syra reached for her, calling her name, but her daughter didn't hear. The child turned, her smile fading, her eyes darkening. And then, as if from nowhere, a storm cloud appeared in the sky, rolling in with an unnatural speed.
The wind howled.
The water rose.
Her daughter screamed.
The memory twisted, contorted, and suddenly Syra was back, standing on the edge of the riverbank, watching her daughter disappear beneath the water. She dove in after her, but it was too late. The waves pulled her under. The world went dark. And she couldn't save her.
The memory ended.
Syra gasped for air, her body trembling violently as she pulled herself away from the mirror. The room was still, but the echoes of the vision clung to her like the remnants of a nightmare. Her heart pounded in her chest as she stumbled back toward the door, her legs unsteady beneath her.
She wasn't alone anymore.
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