Late Spring, The Mourning Spirit Mirror

I uncovered the mirror this afternoon while reorganising several neglected cabinets in the western Archive.

For a few moments I genuinely believed the catalogue had been misfiled. It took rather longer than it should have to remember that the mirror was already in my care, wrapped beneath two collapsed storage boxes inside one of the older preservation cabinets.

That unsettled me immediately.

The object is far too large to overlook, and yet it had remained untouched through several inventory rotations despite its catalogue marker sitting plainly at the front of the shelf. I cannot decide whether the Archive preferred it hidden or whether I did.

The preservation cloth carried the familiar scent of lavender, dust, and old restoration oils. It is a comforting smell, one that has accompanied countless hours beneath warm lamps repairing bindings, cleaning brass, and preserving objects that have survived longer than anyone expected.

The mirror itself appeared unchanged from the last inspection I consciously remember. Heavy silver degradation clouded the reflective surface around the edges, while the twin oval frames remained structurally sound beneath tarnish that has darkened almost to black.

Fine eclipse engravings spiral around the outer border. They are remarkably difficult to study for very long. Every reproduction sketch preserved within the Archive differs slightly from the others despite supposedly tracing the same ornamentation. That inconsistency appears repeatedly throughout the containment records, which note that nothing copied directly from the frame remains entirely accurate afterwards.

The anomaly did not become apparent immediately.

I had placed the mirror beneath the restoration lamp and lit two candles to better examine the damaged silvering. At first it behaved almost normally, although I noticed a faint distortion spreading around the edges whenever the candlelight shifted. I assumed it was a consequence of the deteriorating reflective surface.

A few minutes later I realised the distortion was not in the glass.

It was in the reflection.

The delay was subtle enough that I first blamed fatigue. I have slept poorly for weeks, and after everything that has happened recently I no longer trust every inconsistency my senses present to me. Even so, the effect became impossible to dismiss.

I lowered my hand.

Several seconds later my reflection did the same.

The movement itself was perfectly calm and perfectly natural. There was nothing violent or distorted about it. It simply belonged to another moment.

I covered the mirror immediately.

Clio entered the restoration room not long afterwards. She stopped the moment she saw the cloth covering the table and remained watching it for several seconds before approaching. When she finally reached it, she placed one paw gently against the covered frame and stayed perfectly still.

Then she turned and walked away without looking back.

For the rest of the evening she avoided every reflective surface in the study.

Muninn reacted rather differently. He descended shortly before sunset, but the instant he crossed into the mirror's line of sight he became so visibly agitated that he struck one of the hanging chains hard enough to extinguish two candles before disappearing into the upper halls.

He never once looked directly at the mirror.

The recovery reports from the abandoned French estate describe remarkably similar behaviour among the original investigation team. The mirror had been discovered inside a sealed séance chamber beneath layers of mourning cloth, surrounded by extinguished candle stands and funeral portraits that had been deliberately turned to face the walls.

Among the surviving journals one sentence appears repeatedly.

The reflection that arrives after the gaze.

When I first catalogued those reports, I assumed the phrase was symbolic. I no longer believe that.

While returning the mirror to storage, I noticed another object missing from the western cabinets.

The Mourning Locket with Hair Seal.

It had not simply been misplaced. After searching the surrounding shelves twice, I eventually found it upstairs beside the cabinet containing the Broken Pocket Watch. I have no memory of moving it there.

The watch itself remained silent throughout the day.

Even so, the moment I lifted the locket the familiar sensation returned.

Not a vision this time.

More like a memory that did not belong entirely to me.

For a few brief seconds I became absolutely certain that someone had once pressed the locket into my hands while they wept. I could almost feel the warmth of their fingers, their desperation, and the quiet terror of trying to preserve someone who was already slipping beyond reach.

The feeling vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

I no longer know whether these moments are memories, echoes preserved within the objects themselves, or something else entirely.

It is that uncertainty which troubles me most.

Tonight I covered every reflective surface in the study before extinguishing the lamps.

The mirror now rests beneath black preservation cloth inside the western cabinet once again.

Even so, while passing the darkened hallway outside the restoration room this evening, I caught movement in the glass behind me.

I did not turn immediately.

For reasons I cannot explain, I already knew what I would see.

When I finally looked, the corridor was empty.

Only my reflection remained.

It stood perfectly still for just a moment longer than I had.

Then it turned and followed.

— M