The night in Arilenth was thick with silence, the kind that wasn't empty but instead filled with the hush of breathing trees and stories not yet told. Ravine lay curled beneath the blanket, the faint scent of pressed violets lingering in the sheets. Lanterns outside the window swayed gently, casting soft amber circles across the floor.
She blinked slowly, willing sleep to come. And when it finally did, it came gently — like a tide, pulling her inward.
She was standing in front of the mirror.
The room around her looked familiar — too familiar. The walls were curved, painted with pale lilies. The scent of dried herbs hung in the air, mingled with something sweeter. The mirror itself was old, its wooden frame cracked in places, its surface smudged like breath on glass.
But what she saw wasn't Niva.
It was her. Ravine.
She lifted her hand in the dream, and the reflection copied her. Her same eyes, her same tangled hair, but behind her — in the reflection — the bloom on her chest pulsed faintly, its petals gleaming with soft light.
There was laughter behind her. Distant, muffled.
She turned.
A woman's voice. A man's voice. Talking, laughing. She couldn't make out the words, only the warmth in them. They were familiar and not. They echoed like memories underwater — close, but unreachable.
She turned back to the mirror.
Her reflection stared at her. But something in the face shifted. A flicker. A second version of herself layered beneath. Then gone.
She blinked.
The laughter grew louder, then quieter. She couldn't tell if it came from within her or from someone else entirely. The voices tangled, disjointed. One male. One female. Neither clearly hers, both achingly close.
And then the room began to change.
The lilies on the walls faded. The light dimmed. The mirror cracked—just a thin fracture running across the glass like a line drawn by regret. The bloom at her chest wilted.
And she was alone.
She woke up choking on a sob.
The room was dim, dawn still only beginning to peel back the night. Her cheeks were wet. Her hands trembled.
She didn't know why she was crying. Or maybe she did. The memory — the dream — still clung to her skin like a second shadow.
Arana entered quietly, drawn by the stillness.
"Ravine?"
Ravine couldn't speak. Her mouth opened, but only a soundless breath escaped.
Arana sat on the edge of the bed and reached out slowly. She didn't ask questions. She just placed a hand over Ravine's.
"I saw it," Ravine whispered. "I saw the house. The mirror. Me. But it wasn't me. And there were voices. A man… a woman… I don't know if one of them was me. I don't know if either was."
Arana's eyes softened. "Sometimes the heart remembers what the mind can't. Dreams don't lie. But they also don't speak clearly."
Ravine looked down at the bloom. It rested quiet now, as if it, too, had seen something it couldn't forget.
"I think I was her," she whispered. "I think I really was Niva."
Arana didn't deny it. She looked away, toward the soft light gathering on the floor.
"If you were," she said gently, "then you've already carried so much. It's okay to break under the weight of it."
They sat in silence for a long time.
And when the first birds began to call in the trees, Ravine stood and walked to the window.
Outside, the single bloom still reached for the sky, patient, unchanging.
"I'm tired," she said. "I know," Arana replied.
They watched the sun rise together, quiet and steady.
The warmth came slowly. And with it, a small ache that would not leave. Not yet.