Chapter 3: The Mirrors of Tears

Alika's POV

The night grew colder as Citra stared up at the ceiling of the bridal chamber. Wind slithered in through the cracks of the antique windows, carrying with it faint whispers that brushed against her ears like breath from a ghost.

The room was too silent.

Too lifeless.

And Raditya had yet to return. He’d said he needed to speak with his mother downstairs, but something in her heart warned her—tonight wasn’t normal. There was something lurking within the bones of this house. And it was starting to creep into her own.

She rose from the bed. Her white nightgown trailed the creaking wooden floor. Her bare feet should’ve been cold, but the chill no longer mattered. Her steps were slow as she approached the large gilded mirror in the corner of the room.

It was different now.

Earlier that day, the mirror had been spotless, reflecting her image with pristine clarity. But now… it was fogged, clouded—as if trying to conceal what lay beneath its surface.

Citra leaned in. Her breath fogged up the glass.

And then… she saw her.

Standing behind her reflection—blurred, but unmistakably there—a woman. Dressed in a decaying wedding gown, her long black hair tangled, hiding half her face. She stood still, unmoving, yet her sorrow seeped through the mirror like mist.

She was crying.

Tears streamed endlessly down her cheeks, though her lips never moved. Her eyes screamed of torment, of desperation long buried.

Citra held her breath. Her heart thundered.

She turned swiftly.

Nothing.

But when she looked back at the mirror—she was still there. And now, the woman was staring directly at her.

“Who are you…?” Citra whispered, barely audible.

The woman’s lips parted at last.

But instead of words, blood trickled out—thick, dark, and endless—staining her chest red.

Citra stumbled back in terror. The reflection moved forward, lifting a hand to the inside of the glass, as if trying to reach through it.

And then she whispered:

“Help me… I… am you.”

The words echoed inside Citra’s mind like a scream lost in a void.

“I… am you?” she repeated, trembling.

Before she could process it, the room plunged into darkness.

Every light went out.

Only the pale moon outside the window cast a dim, ghostly glow.

And the sound returned.

Sobbing.

A woman’s sobbing—soft but soul-wrenching.

Citra covered her ears, but the sound pierced straight into her skull.

“Please… I was once a bride too… Don’t open the door… Don’t make the same mistake…”

She staggered backward, aiming for the bed—but tripped over something.

Something cold.

She looked down.

A hand.

A pale hand was reaching out from beneath the bed, clutching the hem of her nightgown.

Citra screamed. She scrambled away and ran to the door, yanking at the knob—but it wouldn’t budge.

It was locked.

The house was keeping her inside.

“Raditya!!” she cried, pounding the wood. “Please! Let me out!!”

No response.

Then, from the mirror… a whisper.

“He won’t come. They all lie.”

Slowly, Citra turned around.

The woman in the mirror wasn’t standing anymore—she was moving. Pacing the mirrored room like it was a world of its own. She circled the walls of the bedroom, then stopped in front of a painting.

Citra’s eyes followed her.

The painting was of a young bride in an old colonial gown. Her face… it looked just like the woman in the mirror.

“Who are you?” Citra asked again, louder.

The woman didn’t answer. She pointed to the name carved into the bottom of the frame:

"Anindya Damar, 1893 – Disappeared on Her Wedding Night."

A chill tore through Citra’s spine. She remembered that name. She had seen it once—buried in the archives of the estate library.

The woman’s voice rose again, urgent and cold:

“The bride’s blood is the offering. But only one can break the chain.”

“Who? Who can break it?” Citra demanded.

The mirror quivered.

The woman’s gaze pierced through her, then whispered:

“The one born twice. Born not for love, but for vengeance.”

Suddenly, the door creaked open.

Raditya stepped in. His face pale, eyes bloodshot. But something in him felt… off.

His smile didn’t soothe her anymore. It chilled her.

“I heard you scream,” he said gently. “What happened?”

Citra pointed at the mirror.

But the woman was gone.

The mirror reflected only herself and Raditya.

“You… you didn’t see anything?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “You’re exhausted, Citra. This house is old. It makes strange noises. Maybe your mind is playing tricks.”

Citra wanted to believe him.

But something deep inside refused.

She knew she wasn’t imagining it.

That night, Raditya held her close, murmuring sweet promises in her ear.

And in his arms… she fell asleep.

But the dream returned.

---

In the dream, Citra stood in a blinding white room where gravity had no meaning. The sky was beneath her feet. Time ran backward.

She saw them—brides.

Dozens of them.

Dressed in white, eyes vacant, marching into a black pit in the center of the room. Silent. Dead inside.

A hand slipped into hers.

She turned.

The mirror woman.

But now… it was her face.

“You didn’t start the curse. But you can end it,” the woman said—in her own voice.

“How?” Citra asked.

The woman replied:

“Kill him before the third night. If you don’t… you’ll become me.”

---

Citra woke in a cold sweat.

Raditya was gone.

She stood up, heart racing.

A small folded paper lay beneath the door.

She picked it up.

Delicate handwriting, not Raditya’s.

Just two lines:

“Don’t trust what you see.

Even love can be a curse.”

—Anindya

Below it, dried blood formed tiny spots on the paper.