Chapter Three: The Mirror of the Past
I stood before the second door, my hand trembling slightly, beyond my control. This door was different from the others—it looked as though it was carved from the very wood that time itself was woven from. The star-shaped symbols etched into its surface shimmered faintly, as if they were breathing—or whispering in a language only those who had known pain could understand.
I didn't know what awaited me behind it, but a faint voice inside me whispered:
"The city doesn't just test you—it reminds you of what you've forgotten."
I pushed the door open slowly. It released a long creak, like the cry of something ancient. The air beyond was strange—warm, yet heavy with the scent of old ashes, as if time itself had been burned and left behind its own smell.
The room was wide, lit without any visible source of light. Everything inside was coated in a thin veil of dust—everything except for the large mirror standing in the center, resting on a stone pedestal. Its edges were carved with circular patterns of suns, moons, and the shadows that lay between them.
I stepped closer, each footfall making the air around me shift. Distant sounds began to surface—faint cries, echoes of laughter I almost recognized. I looked into the mirror—and saw myself.
But it wasn't a normal reflection.
My reflection stared back at me in a way I never had before. Its eyes were fixed, unblinking, and in their depths, something stirred—something between anger and regret. I raised my hands; the reflection did the same, but a second before I did.
I stepped back, and suddenly the mirror burst into a bright white light. From within the light, whispers rose—voices from the past, people I had known, people long gone.
"Why did you leave us?"
"You caused all of this…"
"You can't escape your memories, no matter how far you run from the city."
My inner voice began to mix with theirs. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. Cracks began to spread across the mirror's surface, and with each fracture, a new scene from my past appeared—my childhood, an old house, a woman's smiling face fading behind smoke, a friend calling my name as I turned away.
Then the light returned—brighter, sharper—and the cracks converged into a glowing path before me. I couldn't resist it; I stepped through.
I found myself elsewhere. Narrow streets. A fog covering the ground. Buildings I somehow recognized. It took me a few moments to realize: I had returned to the city of my birth. But the time was wrong—everything was pale, distant, like looking at the present through the veil of a dream.
Footsteps echoed behind me. I turned and saw a figure at the end of the alley. He wore a black cloak, like the one I'd seen before—but this time, his face wasn't entirely hidden. I could see his eyes.
Eyes impossible to forget—cold gray, as if they could see through faces and straight into what lay behind them.
He walked toward me slowly, his voice carrying a tone I felt I knew, though I had never heard it before.
"The city doesn't bring anyone back to the past by accident. What you see now is what you left behind… what you're still running from."
I asked, my voice shaking,
"Who are you? Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?"
He smiled faintly, but the smile never reached his eyes.
"I am not the one who wants. I am the one who shows. You're the one who wanted to know the truth, aren't you? Then look…"
He lifted his hand, and the alley's walls came alive with shifting images—a young man walking alone through the night, holding a letter. The same letter that had begun my journey to the City of Shadows. Then came more images: the same young man sitting in a dark room, writing something on a piece of paper—then burning it.
I froze. That man… was me.
But I couldn't remember doing it. I stepped closer to the vision, drawn into it. I saw the words on the burning page—written in my own handwriting:
"If I return to the city, I will not return as I was."
A coldness spread through my chest, as if my heart had turned to ice.
The stranger's voice softened:
"You have been here before… but you forgot. The city does not welcome survivors—it devours memory and reshapes it."
The ground began to tremble. The fog twisted into writhing shadows, and screams poured out of the walls. I saw myself again—in the mirror—but this time, I wasn't alone. The same man stood behind me, his hand on my shoulder, whispering:
"You are not the first to return… but you may be the last."
I shut my eyes. When I opened them, I was back in the room inside the city. The mirror lay shattered, and the only light came from the cracks in the ceiling. I breathed deeply, trying to understand what had just happened.
Was it a dream? Or had the city truly pulled me into the past?
On the ground beneath the broken mirror, a new carving had appeared—one that hadn't been there before:
"He who sees his past in shadow shall never see his future in light."
I knelt beside it, tracing the raised letters with my fingers. They were warm—too warm, as if alive. Then I heard it—three slow, deliberate knocks on the door behind me.
I turned. The door creaked open by itself. No one was there, but on the wall across the hallway, a human shadow moved—slowly, patiently, as if waiting for me to follow.
I stepped out. The air in the corridor pulsed with strange energy; the lights flickered like a heartbeat. I followed the shadow through the endless halls of the city, the walls whispering my name as I passed.
The shadow stopped at a narrow corner, then turned toward me. Its face was still unclear, but its voice was deep—timeless:
"The city has not yet revealed me, but it sees you as you are. When the full moon rises above it, you will know who I am… and what you were."
Then it vanished.
I stood in silence, hearing only the echo of his words.
The moon…
I looked up through a small window high above. The sky was heavy with clouds, but the moon fought to emerge. I understood then—whatever awaited me would come when the moon was full. It wouldn't be ordinary. It would be the moment when truth itself could no longer hide.
I walked back slowly, the visions of my past still vivid in my mind. Every image, every whisper led to one truth:
I was not a visitor to this city…
I was a part of it.
---
At the end of the corridor, the wind howled through the broken windows, carrying with it sounds that might have been laughter—or weeping. I couldn't tell the difference anymore.
I didn't know whether I was walking toward the truth… or back into what I had been running from all along.
But one thing inside me spoke clearly:
"The next chapter won't be about the city… it will be about you."