The voice came again that night.
Not from her phone. Not from behind a door. It came from within—lodged deep in the folds of Mira's mind like a splinter that pulsed every time she blinked.
"You should have let her die."
Mira sat bolt upright in bed, heart hammering.
The apartment was dark. Cold. Her blanket lay tangled around her legs like a trap. Her phone screen was black. There had been no call. No message.
But the voice was unmistakable. It hadn't been a thought or a memory.
It was her own voice, twisted slightly, as though it had passed through a rusted wire.
She stepped onto the cold floor, trying not to let the dizziness pull her back down. She paced. The silence of her apartment suddenly felt charged—as if the very air were listening.
When she passed the hallway mirror, she didn't dare look. She pressed her back to the wall and slid down until she sat on the floor, head in her hands.
Then, her phone buzzed.
Mira jumped. Fumbled. Picked it up.
Blocked number.
She stared at the screen.
The voice. It was back.
The voicemail loaded.
She pressed play.
This time there was no static. No whispering distortion.
It was clear.
Her voice. Calm. Cold.
"You don't remember what you did. But I do. I never forget. You buried me, Mira. But I'm wide awake."
The recording ended. Mira stared at her trembling hands.
"I'm losing it," she whispered. "I'm hallucinating."
But she knew better.
---
The next morning, she didn't go to work.
She texted Lena a vague excuse. Flu. Headache. Something forgettable.
Lena's reply came back quickly: Let me know if you need anything.
Mira almost told her everything.
Almost.
Instead, she opened her closet and pulled down a battered shoebox from the top shelf. Inside were old journals, letters, fragments of her life that she couldn't throw away but rarely touched.
She flipped through the journals.
One entry stood out. Tucked between pages of scribbles and mundane details was a single sentence written in red ink:
"She is not me."
There was no date.
No explanation.
And she didn't remember writing it.
---
By noon, Mira was back on her feet, dressed in jeans and a worn hoodie. She packed her shoulder bag with one of the letters, the red journal, and her phone. Then she locked her apartment and walked straight to Lena's place.
Lena lived in an old brick building three blocks from the Bureau. Her apartment was filled with warm lights and mismatched furniture, and it always smelled like coffee and mint. It felt like a place untouched by whatever was haunting Mira.
Lena opened the door, startled. "Mira? You said you were sick."
"I lied."
That startled her more. "Come in."
They sat on the couch. Mira told her everything—every message, every mirrored movement, every whisper in the dark. She showed Lena the voicemail.
Lena listened without speaking.
When Mira was done, she expected disbelief.
But instead, Lena said, "I've been hearing things too."
Mira froze. "What?"
"Not a voice. Not clearly. But… whispers. In my apartment. Near my mirrors."
Mira's mouth went dry. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"I thought it was stress. Until I saw this."
Lena got up, walked to her bedroom, and came back with a small framed hand mirror.
Scratched into the back of the frame—faint but unmistakable—was the same eye sigil. The one from Mira's dreams. The one in the margins of Lena's notebook.
Mira touched it with one trembling finger. "It's spreading."
"Or it's waking up," Lena whispered.
---
That evening, Mira walked home alone. She carried the mirror with her, wrapped in a scarf. The air was colder than usual. The sky gray, as though the city had forgotten how to be blue.
She passed a convenience store window and caught her reflection in the glass.
She paused.
Her reflection didn't.
It turned its head—slowly—smiling.
Mira screamed.
The passerby beside her jumped.
She blinked, and the reflection snapped back into sync.
"Sorry," she muttered, face burning. "Thought I saw something."
The stranger moved away quickly.
Mira ran the rest of the way home.
---
When she reached her apartment, a package was waiting at her door.
No label.
She opened it with trembling fingers.
Inside was a VHS tape. Just black plastic. No writing.
She didn't own a player.
But the tape had something etched into its front, carved so deeply it nearly broke the plastic:
"I Am You."
---
That night, Mira had a dream.
She stood in front of a wall of mirrors. Dozens of her reflections stared back.
But only one of them smiled.
And stepped forward.
Right through the glass.
---
End of Chapter 5