The Woman Of The Mirror

"Amor animi arbitrio sumitur, non ponitur"— "We choose to love; we do not choose to cease loving."—Syrus

I do not know precisely the hour when I first met Margarida Godoy, but she was beautiful, and her brisk esprit carried the halcyon spirit of days of yore.

Her winsome smile and faint expressions sheltered her angelic eyes of Aidenn, and her palpable lips were like tender rose petals in their osculations.

A callous murk seemed to engross the enervated slightness of her frail form, that bore her languor like a sorrowful mantle.

Verily, I can still hear the haunting sound of the music box play in accord with her memory, and recognise her image in the mirror—forever reminding me of her indefatigable spirit.

Upon a saturnine spring day, her captivating exhilaration ended. She stood in her eloquent dress by the shores of the ocean, burdened by the surging lament of guilt she had endured unwillingly.

I had loved, with all my heart, this once-vibrant and jovial maiden.

But on one ghastly and memorable night, my life was altered forever.

Upon that terrible night, Margarida Godoy—fraught with the austere daemons of her depression—drowned herself in the cyaneous, suicidal waters that condemned her.

She could no longer bear the unnecessary suffering, and the days of laden anguish and apprehension abated in the way I least expected: by her own departing hand.

We had spent the day before by the ocean, in the company of the waves and the warmth of the sun she so cherished.

I would never see Margarida Godoy in the flesh again, and the culpability of her final act would haunt me all the years of my life.

The year was 1810, and my name is Antón Lugo, a Galician by birth. I was born into the local aristocracy of Galician society, and my parents were worthy members of the nobility. By nature, I considered myself a private man. The times were indeed less propitious, for the country itself was in a most precarious state. I had thought of seeking adventure in the exotic Americas, but the situation across the ocean was volatile, and the future there was fraught with uncertainty.

Thus, I remained in Galicia, seeking to escape the dour and merciless encumbrance that weighed heavily upon me. My heart and soul remained forever faithful to the lasting memory of Margarida Godoy, and my devotion to her was both unquestionable and undeniable.

For many days and nights, I wept at the shoreline with a sullen transparency that could not be hidden. The island on which I dwelt lay within the ancient province of Galicia, in Spain. It was situated at the very western edge of the country, where the land meets the restless sea. The island’s population was reflected in the loyal inhabitants who had remained, even after the threat of the French sanguinary incursion into Spain.

A flickering lighthouse upon the nearby island of Areoso could often be glimpsed through the misty fogs, as oncoming ships passed the harbour and village.
The countless gulls, and the pealing bell of the old church, could be heard and seen in the early mornings, rousing me at last from my lethargic slumber.

I had been troubled since the day of Margarida Godoy’s death, tormented by the fact that I could not bury her within the sacred rituals of a proper Christian interment. In my lament, I erected a marble statue of her, capturing her semblance and divinity. The inspiration for this statue came from the imposing figure of the Greek goddess Arete, the personification of virtue. I could not abdicate my obligation to preserve the purity of my wistful memory of her.

Thus, I kept her majestic pulchritude alive, in spite of the macabre overtone that some amongst the villagers might have interpreted. Perhaps I had ventured into the realm of darkness—a realm mere mortals scarcely comprehend—and had strayed carelessly into the peril of my own obsession.

Upon the statue, I inscribed in Galician the words: 'Velaí a beleza eterna da señora Margarida Godoy' (Behold the eternal beauty of the Lady Margarida Godoy). I undertook the solemn task of resolving the reasons that had driven Margarida Godoy to take her life so suddenly. I pondered this mystery endlessly, yet concluded at last that these reasons would never truly be understood by me.
Thus, I resigned myself to the bitter torment that would forever rack me with grievous guilt, as the spirit of Margarida Godoy persisted in the lingering vestiges of her soul.

One day, the heavenly representation of her marble statue crumbled into tiny fragments of stone. I was greatly surprised by what had befallen the statue, and immediately ordered the mason to construct another. Yet something odd occurred that would dissuade me from that intended course.

One night, whilst in my room, I heard an unfamiliar sound emanating from the place where the statue had once stood.

When I went to investigate, I found the statue standing anew. I did not know what precisely to surmise about the unfathomable occurrence of the previous night. Was this a telling sign that the ghost of Margarida Godoy was watching—and, more importantly, that she was presently nearby?

Thereafter, the interminable days were spent within my solitary chamber, staring out crestfallen and insecure at the watchet hue of the vast ocean through the casement of my window. A dreary and prolonged despondency accompanied me in the weeks that followed, punctuated only by interludes of bitter estrangement.

The echoes of the ocean I heard resonating, as the waves brushed steadfastly against the shore. The casual trill of euphonious birds from the woodland I listened to with unwavering constancy.
Shortly thereafter, I heard a strange noise emanating from the hall of my house. At first, it was indefinite in origin, until the sound grew with alarming intensity. I presumed it to be perhaps the stirring of the ocean wind. A cold draught entered the home, and I felt the eerie presence of a stranger nigh.

It was apparent that someone was within the house at that moment. The question was simply who—and where? When I rose to my feet to investigate the unusual noise, I began to hear my name whispered. The whisper gradually increased at heightened intervals, blending with the wind that seemed to quicken with a mysterious spirit. I was uncertain what to do, as I looked around me.

The chimerical susurrations became more audible and intelligible. The suspicious voice I heard sounded like the dulcet tones of Margarida Godoy herself. Then I heard the harmonious notes of the music box.

How could this be conceivable, when she had drowned in the waters forever?

Was I suddenly going mad? I wanted to believe with all my heart that it was truly she, alive again, to worship and to treasure. Yet the moribund gasp of her final breath perturbed me still, in my incessant and diurnal nightmares.

The ponderance of that implacable tribulation obtruded itself upon my mind in an ever more evocative manner.

So many thoughts entered my mind at that precise moment, as I looked from top to bottom within the manor. At first, I found not a soul intruding in the house. Yet, as I continued with my search, I perceived the presence of an entity lurking within. The putrid smell of the ocean reached my nostrils, and the heavy scent of decomposing seaweed spread into the adjacent rooms. I walked agog around the entire house, desperately calling to her, yearning to glimpse once more the sempiternal beauty I had adored.

'Margarida, is it you? Have you come back to haunt me? If so, do not leave me alone in this wretched world of despair and dissatisfaction. Do not abandon me so hastily, my lady! If you must, then take me with you — forever! I cannot bear another day in your absence'.

I heard a deep murmur call my name from behind, and when I turned around, there she was— within the mirror she had once stared into daily. She was dressed in the uvid raiment she had worn on the day of her death; and the albicant lineaments of her pallid face were hideous and scarred, with the evident marks of the rocks of the crag.

Her long, silky black hair was now cinereous and dishevelled. Her once charming eyes and delicate hands were full of seaweed and sand.

Consequently, the mysterious voice became evanescent, and the spectral presence of Margarida Godoy, seen in the mirror, disappeared.

Thus, the unbridled consternation I had expressed was devoid of joy, and had resumed its continuous state of unfortunate chagrin and sober grief, which I had failed to expunge, despite my best efforts. After a few minutes, I realised it was likely my mind deceiving me into believing I had seen her image— or perhaps it was the bustle of the wind that had echoed her voice.

Did I truly witness the ghost of Margarida Godoy in the mirror she had so adored? Why had she reappeared? I was forced to succumb to my reality, feeling the light raindrops of cirrocumulus fall upon my face as I stood outside.

An imminent storm was approaching from the ocean, the brontide rumbling in the distance. The bells of the lone church rang with full force, yet the storm could not quell the pressing doubt that had unfolded—this inexplicable encounter that would eventually lead to an unforeseen and shocking conclusion.

Once I had calmed my angst, I sat in a chair within the parlour, gazing with a profound stare at the portrait of Margarida Godoy. The abundant memories remained fresh, and the wounds of amarulence were still as raw. Her absolute mystique was as majestic and pure as ever.

My house was old, dark, and redolent with incense, a sombre shade of irrevocable gloom having pervaded the hall. She was the cynosure of the house, and her vim and verve were manifest in our moonlit trysts. She exuded a grace that she bore with timeless splendour, and her ludic nature was as refreshing as her many delightful predilections.

There was a precious trove of accessories within a chest I had valued deeply, and the once pristine piano in the parlour stood lorn and dusty. We had spent countless evenings together, reminiscing about our travels, delighting in shared memories, and listening to the rhapsodies that flowed from the piano afterwards. Now, a veil of darkness had entirely encompassed the house, a daunting and ineluctable vestige of her death.

My once dormant dreams became vivid nightmares that I abhorred with a passionate loathing. The pall of murk persisted with ponderous inertia, and again she appeared to me— from within that haunting mirror. Soon, the days became weeks, the weeks turned into months, and the months into years. Thus I endured the poignant sorrow that afflicted my spirit, and I was no longer the man I once was. Thereafter, I changed for the worse, unexpectedly and irrevocably. Physically, I was a viduous corpse, gaunt and spectral. I became a rake of the bottle, and opium was my Hades.

My dire tribulation brought the torment of madness, stripping me of all mental stability, as Margarida Godoy haunted me endlessly. I knew I had to flee the house at once, before I succumbed utterly to madness. I thought of breaking the mirror to relieve my burden—yet I could not compel myself to shatter it.

One day, I knew, my life would return to the wondrous and vivacious days of yore, teeming with an unpredictable immensity and oblectation. I would accede, for a transient moment in history, to indelible memories of felicity—veracious and endearing. I had rid myself of the trammels of gloom and had overcome the disconsolate anguish that had long distressed me with continual, unrelenting vengeance. I had resumed the course of my life and had inherited a prosperous and villatic vineyard from a beloved family member who had passed away several years before.

I had removed my residence to a new house: a grand manor nestled outside the delightful port of A Coruña. Yet still, the looming shadow of my weary and direful past would reappear before my eyes, sending a swift chill running down my spine forthwith. I cannot forget that unbelievable and inscrutable day—the day I met the charming Adele.

I had not imagined that I would ever again be captivated by a woman who was not Margarida Godoy. Never before had I felt such a powerful conglomeration of miscellaneous emotions, burgeoning and tumultuous within me. I was in the parlour of the manor, the once-imperturbable eventide unfurling in peaceful silence, when a sudden nocturnal tempest shattered the stillness. The hyacinth-blue draperies began to sway violently, the wind howling through unseen crevices. A loud tapping sounded upon the front door, interrupting the quietude, whilst I sat immersed in reading Os Lusíadas by the venerable Portuguese poet, Luís de Camões.

I answered the door, and a stranger stood before me in the pouring rain, a drenched hood covering her head. Without hesitation, I offered her solace and ushered her inside, leading her towards the soothing warmth of the fireplace to dry off and keep warm.

She was silent and did not utter a single word. Her dress clung to her figure, soaked through, and her leather slippers were sodden also. When at last she removed her hood, I beheld her countenance. What I saw was the face of a lovely young woman, and I stood in complete awe of her natural beauty. She was the exact image of an ethereal goddess, and of her statuesque appearance, I shall describe in the following manner.

Her virginal eyes were large and dark, yet commanded with a firm and unwavering impression. Her hair, long and straight, was of a rich black, flowing majestically with an almost preternatural splendour. Her superb figure possessed a rare gracility, resembling that of a noblewoman I once knew. It was too coincidental to be true, for Margarida Godoy too had been slender and fair. After the initial shock abated, I found my voice and spoke.

'What is your name?' I asked the young woman.

'Adele... but I am afraid, for some unknown reason, I do not know where I come from. All that I remember is my name. I understand this may seem odd, sir, but it is all I am aware of, for the moment', she replied.

'I am Antón Lugo. You have, it seems, lost your memory somehow, but there is no need to worry, Adele. At least I know your name. In time, we shall discover your true identity.'

Her vivid guise was indeed remarkably similar to that of Margarida Godoy. I could not help but be amazed by her striking appearance: her mellifluous and assuasive voice, her diffident nature, and the decorum she exuded, accompanied by a bracing smile that gleamed with radiance. Her amicability was present and most noticeable.

For some reason unknown to me, she had a queer fixation with the lone portrait hanging in the parlour—the portrait of the deceased Margarida Godoy. Even her intuitive, penetrating stare was exactly as Margarida's had been. I could not dismiss these peculiar traits that she exhibited, as she warmed herself by the fire. Many questions lingered on my mind, yet her amnesia prevented me from pursuing any compulsive enquiry.

Once she was dried, I presented her with an evening gown to wear for the nonce. She accepted it graciously and expressed her humble appreciation for the silk garment.

Afterwards, I had a private chamber prepared for her, so that she might repose in comfort. The abatement of the menacing storm pacified the unyielding birr of the night. Yet the strange circumstances surrounding the verecund Adele occupied my contemplations throughout the remainder of the night, as a drear silence gradually prevailed over the impressive range of the Galician landscape.

The next morning, we had breakfast together, and I made an attempt to engage her in a cordial conversation, hoping it might help trigger some recollection of her past. Yet, nothing seemed to provoke her thoughts. Instead, she began to acquire knowledge of the manor and, curiously, of Margarida Godoy. She was emulating her self-evident characteristics and propriety with an uncanny ease.

Time passed, and she tarried willingly in the manor. Despite my enquiries and efforts to investigate in the surrounding area, it appeared no one knew of her, nor could they determine the source of her ambiguous origins. Adele remained a puzzling and inexplicable mystery. Yet, in the meantime, time had rekindled the flame of love within me, and we became ardent lovers. I was her debonair suitor, and she, my spirited maiden.

We planned our wedding, and her surreptitious past seemed a distant and irrelevant concern. The marvellous future was all that occupied our discussions, and munificent was her heart and soul. Still, it struck me as odd that, as the days passed, I remained entirely ignorant of the true history of Adele.

We spent the fond days and nights travelling, visiting the wonderful cities of Lisbon, London, Berlin, Athens, and Rome. Yet it was in the city of Pamplona, in the Basque Country, where I first perceived the gradual alteration in her persona. Though our stay in the city was brief, she began to display subtle changes in both her expressions and thoughts. Her mild diffidence began to shift, transforming into an assertive demeanour.

At times, she was quiet in her benevolence, but there was a new pensive quality to her, as though her memory had returned. For a fleeting moment, I believed she had regained some fragment of her past. Yet, when I pondered the subject, she seemed indeterminate, befuddled by my enquiry. No revelation followed. I considered these peculiar shifts in behaviour to be mere aspects of her changing nature.

Her face often served as an index of her mood, and though I attempted to dismiss these signs of uncertainty, they lingered in my thoughts. I preferred to focus on her benignity, her beatific smile, which I had grown to appreciate. Yet, an ominous tincture of the past resurfaced when I least expected it. It manifested in a presage that aroused an invidious vexation. The phantasmagoria of the past was relived, and I dreaded its return.

At times, I dismissed the unsettling comparison between Adele and Margarida Godoy, but as the days wore on, Adele’s pattern of imitation began to disturb me with a growing inquietude. The final revelation came one fateful day, when Adele discovered the mirror of Margarida Godoy, and for the first time, saw her image reflected within it.

It was a typical day of the week, unremarkable in its outwards simplicity, when she discovered the damnable mirror and saw the ghastly spectre of Margarida Godoy staring back at her. She was struck with fright, her intrigue mingling with horror. I calmed her as best as I could, confessing that the image she had seen was indeed that of Margarida Godoy, my first wife.

I do not know, to this day, the absolute reason why I did not destroy the mirror. Perhaps it was my lamentable guilt over the death of Margarida Godoy. I had managed to convince Adele to stay with me, despite the growing unease that gripped me. One night, she entered the parlour wearing a matching dress, identical to the one Margarida Godoy had worn on the day of her suicide. She stood before the mirror of Margarida Godoy. At first, I thought it was merely an eerie coincidence, as Adele displayed her fashionable dress in the Empire silhouette style—an ensemble adored by the aristocracy in the early 19th century.

The dress had a fitted bodice that ended just below the bust, giving her a high-waisted appearance. The skirt was long and loosely fitting, skimming her body rather than being supported by a voluminous petticoat. Her accessories were white gloves and a lovely yellow fillet around her head. I was flabbergasted by the splendid presence of Adele.

‘Indeed, you look magnificent, my dear. However…’ I paused.

She looked straight into my eyes, smiling, and uttered the words that unsettled me: ‘You are wondering, my dear Antón, why I am wearing this gown of Margarida Godoy? Have you forgotten the date? It seems your memory has elapsed so easily'.

Her answer startled me. ‘What do you mean by that, Adele?’

She then grinned, her eyes gleaming with something I could not quite place, and responded: ‘Did you think I would forget the day of my death? Do you not remember? I see that your sorrow for me is over'.

‘What are you saying, Adele?’

She showed me the item that only Margarida Godoy and I would recognise: the music box. ‘Have you forgotten the music box you gave me as a present? Why have you forsaken me to the solitude of the bottomless pit of the ocean and left me there to rot away?’

I could not flinch as the music played. It was then that I realised the horrible truth—Margarida Godoy had somehow entered the body of Adele. ‘My God,’ I whispered, ‘It is you, Margarida, who has entered the body of Adele!’

She approached me with those familiar eyes of Margarida Godoy—eyes that had once penetrated my soul and swayed my heart. The passing of time had done little to diminish their haunting presence, and now, in Adele’s gaze, I saw that same depth, that same unsettling pull that had once captivated me.

With an almost ethereal grace, she placed her delicate hand upon my cheek, her fingers cool yet electric against my skin. Her touch was tender, yet it carried an undeniable weight—an overwhelming force that seemed to bridge the distance between the past and the present.

‘Our love is stronger than the love for another woman, Antón!’ she implored, her voice a mix of pleading and certainty.

Her words pierced through me, carrying with them a sense of inevitability, as though fate itself had woven this moment into the very fabric of my existence. I was frozen, lost in the paradox before me. The woman I had loved—truly loved—was standing before me, yet she was no longer the same. She was something else entirely. And still, I felt the undeniable pull, the same magnetic force I had once felt in Margarida’s presence.

But what was this? Was this truly the same love I had once shared with Margarida, or had it morphed into something darker, something more twisted in this strange reincarnation?

As I gazed into those eyes—now once again Margarida’s, yet so terrifyingly alien—I was torn between my guilt, my longing, and my fear. Could I truly love her again? Or was I bound by the chains of an impossible past, a past that refused to let me go?

I was still in shock, struggling to comprehend the miraculous occurrence unfolding before me. My mind raced, unsure of how to react, overwhelmed by disbelief. I rejected her words and the comfort she offered, my voice trembling with a mixture of fear and confusion.

‘No, no, this cannot be,’ I cried out, almost pleading with her. ‘You are dead. For God’s sake, you died years ago! You died years ago, upon this day'.

There was a moment of hesitation, a brief silence between us, before the horrific truth settled in, and I whispered, ‘My God, it is indeed you, Margarida. You have come back from the dead!’

The thought of madness flooded my mind like a dark wave crashing against my fragile sanity. I could not escape the notion that the nightmare of the past had returned to haunt me. The weight of guilt and sorrow pressed down on my chest, choking me. ‘Are you a spirit? What have you done with Adele?’

Her voice, both familiar and foreign, echoed in the room as she replied, ‘She is here in body, Antón, but I am here in spirit.’

I resisted the overwhelming wave of fear, the desire to reject this impossible reality with every fibre of my being. ‘No, no, this is not happening. You are dead, leave her!’

Her face contorted with anger, the flames of her torment igniting once again. ‘Then she will perish as I did on this day!’

Before I could stop her, she took a step back, and the mirror of Margarida Godoy—my greatest torment, my darkest memory—shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. The sound of the glass breaking was a cruel reminder of the irreversible rift that had opened between us. She left the house swiftly, scurrying into the night.

I ran after her, panic flooding my veins, and reached the beach just as the storm began to subside. My voice broke the silence of the night as I screamed into the wind, ‘Margarida, it is you! No, no, Margarida, do not commit the same act twice. Do not kill Adele, for she is innocent!’

I pleaded with her, my voice raw with emotion. ‘I still love you, Margarida! Our love shall forever be special, but you are dead, and I am alive. Look, and see the truth of my words!’

I stood at the edge of the ocean, gazing out at the dark, churning waters. The familiar scene overwhelmed me. Once again, I was standing on this shore, where she had drowned herself all those years ago. My heart beat wildly in my chest as I saw Adele—no, Margarida—standing before the high tide, her back to me, facing the abyss of the ocean.

Slowly, as if drawn by some inevitable force, she stepped forward into the sea, her movements deliberate and resigned. My heart lurched in horror. ‘No!’ I shouted, rushing forward, but the currents of the ocean fought against me, pulling me back with unforgiving force.

I was helpless, unable to reach her, unable to stop the unfolding tragedy. Time seemed to slow as I watched her sink deeper into the water, her figure vanishing beneath the waves.

Terror gripped me as I stood there, unable to change the course of events. I could only watch, my heart breaking, my body frozen in place. The truth of my love for Margarida, the guilt of her death, and the helplessness I now felt consumed me.

And as I stood at the edge of the world, the only thing I could do was confess my troubled heart to her.

The night was thick with an eerie stillness, the kind of quiet that envelops everything, making the world feel suspended in time. As I stood there, drenched in the cold embrace of the ocean’s mist, a shadow emerged from the darkness behind me. The air grew heavier, and my heart faltered as I turned to face it.

There, before me, was the wraith of Margarida Godoy. She appeared as I had last seen her in my memories—gaunt, her skin pale and slick with the cold sea water, strands of seaweed tangled in her hair, sand clinging to her drenched form. Her eyes, those eyes that had once gazed into mine with love and torment, were now filled with sorrow and finality. A lone tear traced a path down her cheek, a silent testament to the pain that had never truly left her.

She didn’t speak a word. Her only utterance was my name, spoken softly, almost as a lament: “Antón…”

The world seemed to hold its breath as she took a step toward the crashing waves. With each movement, the sea seemed to welcome her, pulling her further into its grasp. I felt my heart tighten, a cold emptiness filling the space where she had once stood in my life. I reached out, desperate, but there was nothing I could do. Margarida Godoy had made her choice, and in that moment, I understood—she had finally found her peace, even if it was at the cost of my own.

And then, as if she were nothing more than a wisp of smoke, she walked into the dangerous currents, vanishing from my sight. The sea seemed to swallow her whole, and she was gone. The haunting memory of her presence dissipated with the winds, leaving only the echo of her name in the cold air.

I turned back towards Adele. She had collapsed to the ground, her body trembling as if the weight of everything that had happened had finally caught up with her. Without hesitation, I rushed to her side, gathering her into my arms. The world felt like it had spun out of control, but in that moment, I focused on the life in my arms. She was still here—alive, breathing.

'Adele, Adele, can you hear me, my dear?' I whispered urgently, holding her close, shielding her from the storm that raged within me.

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open, and her gaze met mine. There was an immediate sense of recognition in her eyes, a flicker of clarity that had been absent before. She took a shaky breath, and in a voice that seemed to come from both the past and the present, she spoke.

'I remember', she said softly, her words laced with a newfound certainty. “I am Lady Adele Andrade.”

With those words, the final puzzle piece fell into place. The woman I had loved was not a mere echo of the past, nor a spirit trapped between worlds. She was real, and she was here—whole once more. The years of confusion, of uncertainty, had been shattered, like the broken mirror that had once imprisoned us both.

As I held her, I believed that the torment of the past was over. Margarida Godoy had vanished, and in her place, Adele had returned—not as a shadow of what once was, but as a woman reborn from the ashes of grief and guilt.

Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quique amavit, cras amet.

And so, we would love again, with a future ahead of us, free from the chains of the past.

A week had passed since that night by the beach, and the air in the house had grown heavier, thick with the silence between Adele and me. She had recovered physically, but something had changed in her. She was distant, cold, and I felt the widening gap between us, an emptiness I couldn’t fill.

One evening, as I sat in the parlour, I heard the faint sound of Adele moving about. I looked up, and my heart stopped.

She was holding a mirror, the same ornate frame, the same polished glass. My breath caught in my throat.

‘Adele, what are you doing with that?’ I managed to ask, my voice strained with unease.

She didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers traced the edges of the frame, almost reverently. ‘I thought it might help', she said softly, her voice distant. ‘The other one broke. I thought... it might bring some peace'.

I felt my chest tighten. ‘No,’ I whispered, panic rising. ‘That mirror—it’s not just glass. You don’t understand!'

But she didn’t listen. She placed it carefully on the wall.

I stepped forward, heart racing, but before I could speak again, a chill ran through me. In the reflection, something moved.

At first, I thought it was my imagination, but then the figure became clearer: Margarida.

I gasped and stepped back, feeling the blood drain from my face. She stood there in the mirror, gaunt and drenched with seaweed, her eyes lifeless. Her twisted grin made my stomach turn.

‘Adele... do you see her?’ I whispered, but Adele was unmoving, her eyes fixed on the glass.

‘She’s here,’ Adele murmured, her voice empty. ‘She never left'.

The reflection of Margarida seemed to smile wider, and then, just as quickly, she began to fade. The mirror was once again still, the glass smooth and featureless.

I stood frozen, heart pounding in my chest. ‘This can’t be real...’ I breathed, but there was no escape. Margarida had returned. And she was a part of us now, bound to the house, to the past we couldn't bury.

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