Broken Mirror Hard To Mend Novels & Stories

The mirror room had been designed to project calm—a clean, symmetrical space with soft lighting and seamless glass meant to promote introspection. But tonight, it felt more like a maze of grief. Every wall reflected a different version of Isabella and Adrian: fractured, weary, straining beneath the weight of what they could no longer unsee or undo.

She turned. At the far wall, half-buried in fallen stone, a mirror leaned—eight feet tall, gothic-arched, the frame a tangle of carved angels and demons locked in eternal collision. The glass was cracked, most of it intact. Burgundy veins marbled the surface like something old had dried there. “It’s beautiful,” she said, stepping closer despite herself. Her fingertips came away dark. Not paint. Blood. Michael brushed at the base. “Even with the crack, craftsmanship’s perfect. It looks sealed-yesterday fresh.”

Staring at the mirrored wall. His reflection? Shattered.

“Lead the way.” We moved fast, sticking to the high corridors, avoiding the main halls. The observatory was crumbling, it was cracked, the stars bleeding through like silver wounds. Dust coated everything. In the center stood the mirror,tall, black-framed, its surface like still water. I stepped in front of it. “Stay back,” I said. “This might not be safe.” I pressed my palm to the glass. Fire moved through my veins. The mirror cracked. And the.... I saw the crypt.

Her hands slowly cover her mouth, finding herself taking a few steps back. The mirrors placed inside the punishment room had been there for as long as she could remember. It was older than her, older than her professor, and older than her professor’s professor. It was so old that even though it had fallen off the hooks it was placed on, it wouldn’t break. And yet, almost every mirror that was within Amara’s reach had cracks on them. The mirrors inside were made of strong metal, but she could see indentations on its casing. It looked like strong nails were run through it, making it look like Amara had scratched on the doors, trying to get out.

It might be sooner than I expect and I don’t want that revelation. Therefore, keeping my distance from him might be the best decision as from now on because I will not be able to take another harsh blow in the near future. Well, what more blows can a shattered mirror take when it’s already shredded to pieces and thrown aside like garbage? It can never be glued back together however much you try to bring the bits and pieces back together. In the end, it splinters again and again because it remains as fragile as it once was.

But why do I still see the broken girl even if the mirror is not there anymore? The blood on my hands is proof that I did everything to make the broken girl go away, but she remains. I’m broken. And there is no fixing me. Even if there is no mirror, I will still be broken because the problem is not the mirror, it’s not the people who see me. The problem is ‘me’.

If he is her mate, then he would surely reject them seeing how ruined and disgusting she was. “Alice! Don't say that. The scars mean nothing. He is meant for us.” Lenore snapped at her. “Alice yelled out loud; as she slammed her fist into the mirror. The glass cracked and shattered but held inside the mirror frame. She looked at the mirror surprised that she had hit it. Surprised that it was still intact. She looked at the mirror and hated it. The mirror was broken but still together. It could never be fixed but it was still together. She gritted her teeth, becoming more and more angry. She was the mirror, damaged, broken, ugly, and never being completely shattered but never being able to be

CHAPTER 2: RAVEN'S POV: The mirror in my Brooklyn apartment bathroom is cracked in the top left corner, been that way since I moved in three years ago, I never bothered fixing it because it matches the rest of me. I stare at my reflection under the harsh bulb light, face half shadowed already, and feel the emptiness settle like an old habit. Tonight's not about beauty only, it's about bait. About becoming the kind of woman Damien Blackwood can't resist bidding on.

“Do it now!” ​Thorne placed her down with a gentleness that seemed out of place in the middle of an apocalypse. I looked at my silver arm, the dead limb I had carried as a badge of my own failure since the fall of the old world. I realized then that I had been building the wrong tools. The mirror was for seeing, but I needed something for touching. I needed to reach into the light and pull the shadow out. I needed a bridge that could survive the transit.