Chapter 11: The City Waits While The Mirror Watches Closely II
In the background, a muted news report murmured about "unexplained plant growth" near subway grates and abandoned rail lines, the anchors' voices flat, almost hesitant, as though reluctant to say what they had seen.
When Jules arrived, the air in the bookstore was different. Wetter, richer — not mold or rot, but the raw, earthy scent of fresh soil, of something that had broken through the surface to reach for the light.
Jules stopped in the doorway, blinking as though she'd stepped into a fever dream. "That's… a flower. On your ceiling," she said, her voice tight, hesitant.
Aria didn't look up. "Yeah. There's six now," she said, voice even but carrying a weight that made Jules glance away.
They moved toward the book. Jules hesitated, keeping her hands close to her chest, wary of touching it. Aria, gloved, reached out anyway, brushing her fingers over the pages.
Thin, white, vein - like roots had begun to creep from the spine, crawling across the counter, reaching toward the window where another flower leaned, stretching toward the morning sun.
Jules cleared her throat, eyes darting nervously over the roots. "We need to document this," she said.
Aria's gaze stayed on the creeping strands. "We need to figure out if it's spreading," she said, voice low and urgent. "I don't think we're the only ones."
Jules' face went pale. "My friend's roommate… he saw something in the mirror yesterday. Said it winked at him before he did."
Aria felt a chill crawl down her spine. Her words came out tight, clipped. "Yeah. I think the reflections are watching us now."
She tried to laugh lightly, hoping to make it sound like a joke. The tension in her chest and the tightness in her throat betrayed her. Jules noticed immediately, and the silence that followed hung heavier than the damp, earthy scent of the bookstore around them.
Aria slipped into the back bathroom under the excuse of checking the leak again. The faucet dripped steadily, each drop striking the sink with a lazy, methodical rhythm that echoed in the small space.
She closed the door behind her and leaned against the cold porcelain, staring at her reflection. The face in the mirror seemed calmer here, less delayed, but something about it still set her nerves on edge — those eyes looked familiar, yet not quite her own.
The door creaked. Jules stepped inside without knocking, her presence filling the room.
Aria didn't look up. She didn't need to. She knew it was her.
"You okay?" Jules asked softly, her voice cutting through the quiet. She stepped closer, eyes sweeping over Aria's face as if she could read the thoughts Aria hadn't voiced.
Aria shook her head, slow and reluctant. "I… I don't know. I just feel off. Not sick. Just… not me." Her words were almost swallowed by the weight of the silence around them.
Jules reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against the hem of Aria's sleeve. "Uncomfortable? Feverish? I can close early if you want," she offered, her tone steady but gentle.
"No. It's not that," Aria murmured, pressing her forehead against Jules's shoulder. She didn't understand why she moved that way, only that it felt safe, grounding, like instinct remembered something her mind had forgotten.
Jules wrapped her arms around her, pulling her close, letting Aria sink into her warmth. Her breath ghosted across Aria's hair, steady and calming. "Do you want to try something… new?"
Aria blinked, tilting her head. When her eyes met Jules's clear blue gaze, the question lingered between them like fog settling on glass, heavy and silent.
"What kind of new?" she whispered, voice low and tentative.
"Something you control," Jules said, cupping her jaw gently. "Push me if you don't like it."
She kissed her then — soft, deliberate, a careful brush of lips that could have been dismissed as nothing. But Aria didn't pull away. She didn't flinch. She parted her lips just enough, and that was all Jules needed.
The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, each movement deliberate yet unhurried. Jules's tongue traced along hers, gentle and coaxing, tasting, learning.
Aria parted her lips further, giving Jules permission, and Jules responded by nibbling softly on her lower lip, then drawing it between her own. A soft gasp escaped Aria, shuddering into a quiet moan that hung between them.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't harsh. It was warm, wet, and curious, an exploration that felt intimate in every subtle motion.
"This is practice, like always," Jules whispered against her lips, voice low and steady.
Aria nodded, still suspended in the haze that curled around them. Her fingers traced tentative paths along Jules's back, pulling her closer, craving more, always more.
Her body moved fluidly, instinct guiding her in ways her mind hadn't fully caught up with yet.
Jules kissed her with a patient rhythm — tongue gentle, mouth open, soft licks timed between breaths — and Aria responded as though this were the language she had always spoken, one she recognized deep down.
For a fleeting moment, something else stirred — faint, distant, a memory tugging at the edges of her mind. Elara. The thought was blurred, shadowed, teasing her awareness without clarity, a whisper she couldn't quite grasp.
Jules broke the kiss slowly, her eyes locking onto Aria's. "I know Elara tasted you already," she said softly, almost reverently, "but I get to have you whenever I want. As your friend. As your first."
Aria swallowed, her cheeks heating as a rush of warmth flooded through her. "Can… can I have one more?" she murmured, voice tentative but full of longing.
Jules didn't hesitate. She didn't answer with words. She simply pulled Aria back against her, letting their kiss resume with the same deliberate, patient hunger.
Aria let herself melt into the moment, surrendering fully to the warmth, to the rhythm between them.
Jules' hands traced her curves with careful precision, grounding her, letting her breathe again into herself. When the intensity ebbed, they lingered, foreheads pressed together, sharing the quiet pulse of each other's presence.
Finally, they broke apart, brushing lightly against each other as they moved toward the bathroom door. Aria's fingers lingered on Jules' wrist, reluctant to leave the small bubble of closeness.
"You okay?" Jules whispered, tilting her head to meet Aria's gaze.
Aria gave a soft nod, a faint smile brushing her lips. "Yeah. Better than okay."
They stepped out together, the soft creak of floorboards underfoot reminding them that the bookstore was still, at least superficially, ordinary.
The scattered petals on the counter glinted in the morning light, delicate and fragile, and the hum of fluorescent lights above felt louder somehow in the aftermath of intimacy.
Niko was waiting near the table, fiddling with a small, handheld scanner. "I brought this," he said, voice low and cautious. "It's from my brother's old EMF testing work. Thought it might help… figure out what's going on."
Jules leaned over the scanner, glancing at the flowers. "EMF, huh? Let's see if your brother's toy can handle these things."
Niko muttered under his breath, "Just… don't touch the mirror."
The readings spiked the instant the scanner hovered near the blooms. Numbers jumped, lights blinked frantically, and the device shook in his hands like it might explode.
Aria turned toward the mirror — and froze. Her reflection didn't move. It didn't smirk. It didn't blink.
It just waited.
She stepped closer, voice barely audible. "What are you?"
Nothing answered. Only her own breath fogged the glass, forming a perfect circle that cleared as if something on the other side had exhaled back at her. Goosebumps prickled along her arms.
That night, sleep was impossible. The hum beneath the floor had grown louder, almost tangible, vibrating under her body as she curled up on the couch.
Piper refused to go near the mirror, retreating to the far corner of the room, eyes wide and wary. Aria left every light on, watching the shifting petals, straining to hear the faintest sound from the blooms.
At exactly 3:12 a.m., one flower bloomed wider than before and let out a tiny, glassy chime. The sound hung in the air, delicate and fragile, like the first note of a lullaby that promised both comfort and warning.
Aria stiffened, staring down at it, feeling the air thrum around her like a heartbeat not her own.
By morning, the bookstore had stopped pretending it was normal. Books shifted along the shelves of their own accord. Titles changed when she wasn't looking. The register printed a receipt for The Blooming Path: One Copy Sold. She hadn't sold anything.
Her phone buzzed relentlessly with notifications. People online were posting photos. Hashtags like #CrimsonSprawl and #RootSignal trended faster than she could read. One claimed to see the flowers inside a locked train car. Another said they glimpsed a stranger with no reflection.
While sorting inventory, her phone vibrated again. A new alert flashed in bold:
CITY ALERT: UNREGISTERED PLANT GROWTH ZONES IDENTIFIED — STAY CLEAR OF BLOOM SITES
Her heart slammed once and stayed suspended. She looked at Jules. Jules' eyes mirrored her own shock, already scanning the alert on her phone. Neither spoke.
Niko swore softly under his breath, gripping the scanner tighter, the device now completely unstable.
Outside, thunder rolled heavily across the city, but no rain fell. Only pressure pressed down against the windows and walls, thick and heavy, like the world itself was holding its breath.
Aria swallowed, feeling the intimacy of earlier that day — soft, grounding, human — clash with the creeping, unnatural reality pressing in. The bookstore felt alive, dangerous, and aware. And in the center of it all, the mirror waited.
Later that day, the bell above the door jingled. A customer stepped in, pausing in the doorway as if the shop itself were a separate world. Young, maybe twenty, hair a tangled mess, coat far too large for their frame. Their eyes were wide, pupils blown, scanning the room with a kind of hesitant awe.
"It's… quieter in here," the stranger said, voice soft, almost relieved, like stepping into a shelter from a storm.
Aria nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Yeah," she murmured, her tone careful, neutral, not prying.
The stranger's gaze flicked toward the tall mirror against the far wall. "That thing… it doesn't like me," they admitted, voice lower now, hesitant. "I see it in my dreams."
Aria didn't ask what they meant. She didn't move closer, didn't prod. The words hung in the air like smoke. The stranger lingered, body tense, shoulders hunched as if bracing for something. And then, without buying anything, they turned and left, coat swaying with each step, leaving a trace of cold in the air behind them.
By the time dusk draped the city in violet shadows, the flowers along the windowsill had grown taller. Crimson petals tilted toward her as she passed, not in aggression, but in acknowledgment, as if sensing her presence, recognizing her.
She walked to the mirror, stopping a few inches away. The cracks had spread, webbing across the surface like veins beneath thin skin. Each fissure seemed to pulse faintly, subtle but alive, as if breathing.
Her reflection stared back, still familiar, yet different. And then — a whisper, a sound so soft it might have been the wind.
"Bloom."
The word sank into her chest, reverberating like a drumbeat, steady and urgent. She could feel it crawling up through her ribs, through muscle and sinew, through concrete and soil, reaching through the city itself. Ancient. Patient. Watching. Rising.
She opened her eyes fully, glanced once, and met herself again. She was herself, but not untouched. Something had shifted, something deep and irretrievable.
Beneath the streets, below the layers of stone and brick, whatever lurked under the city stirred. Not with impatience, not with malice. Just… waiting.
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Roots curl through forgotten corners, silent, slow,
stretching toward light they were never meant to know.
The glass watches, cracks pulsing like hidden lungs,
while the city holds its breath, waiting for the hum beneath.
Petals bloom in midair, crimson against shadowed walls,
whispering secrets older than the streets themselves.
Every reflection lingers a heartbeat too long,
and something patient stirs where no one dares to look.