Chapter 10: The City Waits While The Mirror Watches Closely
Aria stirred awake, sunlight slipping through the blinds like it was afraid to touch her. Her body still hummed with the memory of Jules' touch — soft, electric, real. She turned toward the side of the bed where Jules should have been, but it was empty. A quiet ache settled in her chest, sharp but not unwelcome.
She pulled Jules' oversized shirt tighter around her shoulders and breathed in. The fabric still smelled like her — warm, a little wild, a little sweet. It was the only thing anchoring her to last night's closeness, the only proof that wasn't fading into the haze of morning.
Her phone buzzed softly on the nightstand. A message from Jules: "Still thinking about you. Coffee later?"
Aria smiled, thumb hovering over the screen before replying: "Always."
She sat up slowly, eyes drifting at the cracked mirror across the room. The jagged line sliced through her reflection, but this morning it felt different — sharper, colder. She rubbed her eyes and looked again, a flicker of something like unease curling in her gut.
Shaking it off, Aria stood and pulled the shirt down around her hips. The warmth from Jules' scent wrapped around her like a shield, but the mirror didn't seem to care.
Outside, the city waited — quiet, restless, like it was holding its breath.
And Aria felt like she was on the edge of something she couldn't quite name.
The mirror crack had deepened overnight. It wasn't dramatic — just a hairline fracture crawling along the glass like a spider's leg — but Aria noticed it the second she walked past. Something about it looked… wrong. It hadn't been there yesterday. She paused, backpedaled, and stared.
The glass caught the early gray light filtering through her half - shut blinds, making the crack shimmer slightly. Cold. Too cold. She pressed her fingertip to the glass and flinched. The chill bit deeper than it should've. Not like a draft. More like a warning.
She stepped back and tried to shake it off. Maybe she'd just slept like garbage again. The kettle on the stove hissed but never quite whistled, like it somehow knew she wasn't really listening.
She poured hot water into her favorite mug and forgot the tea bag, standing in the kitchen with both hands wrapped around the cup, the steam fogging her glasses.
Dominic's cat, Piper, rubbed against her ankle with a meow that sounded less hungry and more uneasy. Aria scratched behind her ears without looking down.
There was that hum again — faint, almost imperceptible, vibrating deep in the walls, like something enormous shifting in the bowels of the city itself. It pressed against her chest, low and insistent, a reminder that the world was never quite still.
She blinked, shook it off, and went to get dressed. Her phone buzzed on the dresser: two unread messages from Jules, and one calendar reminder she didn't remember setting: "You are not alone."
Her stomach knotted. That wasn't normal.
Outside, the rain fell light but steady, drumming a soft rhythm on her umbrella. The city felt off, unsettled.
Pedestrians moved sluggishly, their movements just a little too hesitant. Faces flicked past, eyes glazed and distant, as if the world around them had been slightly warped, just out of focus.
A guy in a hoodie stopped at the crosswalk and stared at the sky for a full minute without blinking. Aria passed him quickly, tucking her hands in her jacket. The clouds above were churning low, like a storm had forgotten how to break.
At the bookstore, the front light flickered once when she unlocked the door. Then again when she stepped inside. The air was stale in a way it had never been before, like the whole shop had held its breath while she was gone.
Shelves creaked softly behind her as she turned on the desk lamp. She froze. A stack of books near the window was toppled — somehow all collapsed outward in a perfect spiral. No wind. No draft. Just… rearranged.
She picked up the top book. Dreams in the Soil. She didn't remember shelving this. Its leather cover was warm in her hands. Almost too warm. She opened it, just to check for a bookmark or maybe a library stamp, but instead found one handwritten line in faded ink:
Things grow where they are called. Even if they shouldn't.
She closed it fast, heart skipping. A chill slid down her spine, and she placed the book on the counter like it might bite.
The rest of the day blurred. A few regulars drifted in but didn't stay long. One woman asked for a book that didn't exist. Another came to return one Aria had never loaned. The doorbell kept ringing even when the door wasn't moving. She kept checking behind her.
By the time she locked up, her chest felt heavy. She stepped out into dusk, the city glowing in a flickering wash of neon and haze. Her apartment was dim when she entered. She didn't remember turning off the lights. Piper sat on the table, tail flicking. Her eyes were locked on something in the hallway. Aria turned.
There was a flower blooming out of the wall.
Just one. Bright crimson. Small, delicate petals pushing out from the drywall like it had been growing there for years.
She stared at it for a long moment, as if looking away might make it disappear. Its stem was thin, curling impossibly in the air, rooted in nothing — no soil, no moisture, just hovering as though defying all logic.
Her fingers hovered inches above it, trembling slightly, but she didn't dare touch. And then, almost imperceptibly, it shivered, bending toward her as if aware of her presence.
A chill ran down her spine. She backed up, each step hesitant, and fled to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Her reflection in the mirror stared back, pale and still, but then she noticed the crack — how it had spread, jagged and alive, cutting through the glass like a lightning strike frozen in time.
And her reflection… smiled.
Aria didn't. She stood frozen, her limbs refusing to obey. Her reflection raised an eyebrow, slow and deliberate, a mocking tilt of motion that made her stomach knot.
"Almost ready," the reflection mouthed.
The words burned in her mind, and panic finally seized her. She bolted from the bathroom, heart hammering, breath caught in her throat. Piper yowled, scrambling after her, fur brushing her legs as she skidded into the living room.
Aria dropped to her knees, pressing her palms flat against the cold floor, as though the pressure might anchor her to reality.
Her chest heaved violently, lungs desperate for air. She stayed like that, still trembling, letting the pounding of her heart slow while the shadows in the room seemed to stretch and flicker around her.
Eventually, her breathing steadied. She didn't turn the lights back on. She didn't need to. She just sat there in the darkness, letting the weight of something — ominous, unseen, suffocating — settle above her, behind her, inside her.
Piper curled against her side, a small, warm presence, grounding her in a world that suddenly felt fragile and uncertain.
The quiet in the room pressed down on Aria like a living weight, thick and expectant. She stayed on her knees, palms flat against the cold wood, her chest rising and falling unevenly, heart hammering. She wasn't sure she wanted to move — not yet, not until she understood what had already begun.
Her phone buzzed sharply, startling her. Jules' name glowed on the screen.
"You seeing weird stuff? Because the library's leaking moss from the air vents," the message read.
Aria's fingers flew across the screen without hesitation. "Meet me at the shop tomorrow. Bring gloves." She set the phone down, still catching her breath, muscles tight as if she had just run.
By morning, the situation had worsened. A new flower had bloomed in the corner of her bedroom, curling in midair, rooted in nothing.
The mirror bore a fresh crack, jagged and spreading like frozen lightning across the glass. The book she'd left on the counter, Dreams in the Soil, had opened itself overnight, pages fluttering as if sighing.
Her phone flickered violently, notifications scrolling in reversed letters or garbled symbols she couldn't read.
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Morning dressed itself in borrowed warmth,
but the glass refused to lie quietly.
Cracks learned how to travel, reflections learned how to watch,
and the city held its breath like it knew her name.
What bloomed did not ask for soil or permission.
It answered a call she never meant to make.
While streets waited and walls listened,
the mirror smiled —
and something patient realized she was ready.