But soon.
That was the promise she made to herself as she stepped away from the mirror, her breath misting in the cold air of the hallway.
Back in her room, the silence wrapped around her like wet cloth—heavy, cold, clinging. The sigil on her palm throbbed faintly, as if whispering against her skin.
She lit a candle.
Not because she needed the light—but because she needed the company.
She hadn't meant to say it. Not really.
She was just speaking to the fire, to the night, to her own spiraling thoughts. But the name slipped out like a breath too long held.
> "Kainomarah."
And the moment she did—
Everything stilled.
The flame didn't flicker. It froze, unmoving, like time had inhaled and forgotten how to breathe.
The walls exhaled—a low groan, like stone grinding against bone. The sigil on her palm pulsed so hard it ached, and the candle turned blue.
A shadow peeled itself from the wall.
And then, she remembered.
🕯️ Before the House – Years Ago
She had been seventeen.
The world had felt wide then. Loud and warm and full of skin. And he had felt like summer.
Chibueze.
That was his name.
He had kind eyes, a terrible sense of humor, and hands that always reached for hers before words did. They'd kissed under jacaranda trees, palms sticky with puff-puff sugar, futures whispered between homework and curfews.
He had made her believe she could be wanted without being useful.
He never touched her like a man hungry for her body—only her mind. Her laughter. Her presence.
They had plans—small ones, fragile and ordinary.
To leave Nsukka after school.
To open a small printing press.
To write children's books with characters that looked like them.
To live in a flat where sunlight hit the floor in the mornings and nothing ever bled through the walls.
Zina remembered how he used to brush her knuckles when he thought she wasn't paying attention.
How he memorized her exam dates like they were national holidays.
How he once told her, "Even if the world forgets you, I won't."
But he did.
Not out of cruelty—but life's erosion.
One week turned into months. Then years.
She stopped calling.
He stopped waiting.
She moved to the city.
He got married.
Now, she didn't even know where he lived—or if he remembered the name of the girl who kissed him under jacaranda trees.
But somehow, tonight, in this cursed house with its sighing mirrors and secrets that cut,
his memory had returned like a lifeline.
A rebellion.
A reminder that there had been a before.
And maybe—just maybe—there could be an after.
He had said he'd wait.
But life hadn't.
And she hadn't.
She blinked as the memory faded—but the ache stayed.
> "You think about him often."
Zina turned sharply.
Kain stood in the doorway, no sound to his arrival. No footstep, no warning—just presence.
His eyes burned silver in the candlelight.
Zina swallowed. "You scared me."
"You spoke my name," he said.
It wasn't an accusation.
It was… intimate.
Dangerous.
"I didn't mean to."
"You did," he said, stepping closer. "You were alone. You weren't afraid. That's when the truth comes out."
She looked away. "It was just a name."
He tilted his head. "Not to the house."
The air around them shimmered.
The mirror—still covered—rattled against the wall.
Kain turned toward it, and in the soft glow of the blue flame, his silhouette flickered like something not entirely human.
Then he turned back to her.
"You were remembering him," he said.
It wasn't a question.
Zina's throat went dry. "I—I didn't mean to."
He took one step forward.
Then another.
When he was close enough to touch her, he didn't. He only whispered:
> "Was he worthy of your memory?"
Zina flinched. "Why would that matter?"
"Because you carry it like a wound."
She stepped back, heart hammering.
"You don't get to be jealous."
"I am not jealous," Kain said softly.
But the mirror cracked.
Just a thin line.
Barely visible.
Yet it screamed louder than thunder in her mind.
Zina stared at him.
And finally asked the question she'd been circling for days:
> "What are you really, Kain?"
He smiled. But there was no warmth in it.
> "I am the thirteenth curse given breath."
> "And you…" he stepped forward, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, "…are its final bride."
The candle went out.
Not with wind.
With will.
And the room plunged into darkness—except for the mirror.
Which now glowed behind its cloth.
Like something on the other side had finally awakened.