Mirror Of Her Dreams Novels & Stories

Mira lay on her small bed in the servant quarters. The night was quiet, but her eyes would not close. Every time she drifted, a shadow came in her dream. She saw dark eyes, burning with hate. She saw hands reaching for her throat. She heard a woman’s voice whisper, “I will take you away.” Mira woke up with a cry, her body shaking. Her chest rose and fell fast. Sweat covered her forehead. She looked around the room, but it was empty. Only silence. Only the sound of her own breath.

Little by little, my dreams helped me release the disappointment and pain of being so blatantly used and dumped by Joshua. I’d fallen in love with the Marc of my dreams. If only it could transfer to the real one. Sadly, my interaction with Marc when I was awake was stilted and awkward. In my dreams, we were a couple with a strong bond. In reality, we were two strangers who had a definite physical attraction, but knew minimal about each other. I was embarrassed about the fact that I’d manifested this imaginary love relationship with this man. I clearly needed therapy.

The dream began in silence. No sound, no breath, just a slow turn of air that shimmered like glass. Evelyn stood barefoot in a hall of mirrors, each pane showing a version of herself—one asleep, one burning, one staring back with silver in her eyes. Somewhere far off, a door closed. She moved closer to the nearest reflection. Her mirrored self smiled. You’re late, it mouthed. The glass rippled, and her hand passed through it.

There I am in the white room again. Why the fuck do I keep dreaming with this? I walk towards the mirror again. My other version is there, but she is not alone. She is on someone’s bed, undressed, asleep. I try to call her, me, and I slap the mirror a few times, as hard as I can, but she does not listen to me. She looks… happy.

As she turned the sink’s faucet on, stuck her hands under the water (dammit if he couldn’t hear the water trickling over her hands, against the porcelain), she froze, gazing into the mirror over the sink, entranced by something only she could see. The voices in Andrew’s head kept screaming and the water from the faucet kept trickling into the sink, though the video feed made no sound . . . *** For a moment Deyquan forgot they were watching recorded footage, tempted to yell at Lizzy Tillman: Get the fuck out! Run! Freaky-ass kid’s getting closer! Get your ass out of there, now..! The video flickered. Rippling with static. The mirror’s glass melted and formed liquid hands—the best Deyquan coul

But then again, at the end of the day, I can help her avenge herself and achieve her dreams, but the will to live and find her purpose, lies on her. "Are you happy?" I asked her once we're done and she was happily telling me about everything she saw. Miracle seemed surprised by my question, as if it was the first time someone is asking her that. Damn it, just how damaged is she? What did her family do to this lady? As if realizing something, the glimpse of light in her eyes dimmed a bit, her smile wavering a little. "I am. Surprisingly. And I haven't felt this happy in a while, Hawk."

She wished she could borrow his calm, but her own chest thrummed like a drum, restless, uncertain. Promise lay down, the ceiling blackened above her, Daniel’s quiet breathing steady at her side. Sleep did not come easily. When it did, she dreamed of a market filled with mirrors. Each mirror showed her wearing different faces, different clothes, different lives. In one, she wore velvet, applauded by strangers. In another, she was barefoot, shoulders bent beneath buckets of water. In yet another, she stood laughing with Daniel, her feet bare, her eyes clear. But in every reflection, her shoes were broken. Only her steps remained unbroken—echoing, multiplying, refusing to stop.

“You… knew the rest of that song?” > “It’s yours,” the mirror said softly. “No, it’s not.” > “It belonged to the body you wear.” Mira’s chest tightened. “What did you say?” The mirror shimmered, revealing a faint image — a girl with the same face, but different eyes. Gentle. Distant. > “Her name was Elara.” Mira stumbled back. “That’s… the body’s name?” > “Yes. She dreamed of music and never sang aloud. Until you came.”

And then she searched for the mirror, like what she did on her vision. The mirror revealed something she’s not prepared to see. Nor did she anticipate it. The mirror gave her a vision of someone else. Someone not her at all. The reflection on the mirror showed a person with straight corn-colored hair. Bright yellow strands fall on her shoulders. Her eyes were pitch black, her nose like a button but with a mole at the side. Her lips were naturally red. Like she has chewed a pomegranate fruit and the stain didn’t leave. “who… who are you?” – she spoke and the reflection also did the same.

The journal of her mother lay open on a flat rock before her, and Kael stood just beyond the circle, his presence steady and grounding. Aria's dreams had grown stranger in the nights since the Hollow King’s banishment. She hadn’t told Kael all of them yet—mostly because she didn’t know if they were dreams at all. One vision kept returning. A silver mirror. Fractured, shimmering. And within its shards—images of herself. Some laughing, some weeping, others cloaked in blood and fire. None of them whole. And none of them her, not entirely. ---