The streetlights flickered as if something in the air was disturbing them. Valeria was running. She didn't remember leaving her house, but there she was—barefoot, clutching the journal in one hand and the box in the other. The box… locked, as always. But now it pulsed. She could feel it. A dull heartbeat reverberating through the wood, as if something was trapped inside.
"Valeria!" a male voice shouted in the distance.
It wasn't Ariel. It wasn't anyone she recognized. She froze, breath forming clouds in the cold air. The alley she stood in didn't exist in her neighborhood. Not even in her city.
"Where am I?" she whispered.
The voice came again, closer now.
"You weren't supposed to open the journal. Not yet."
She spun around. A man approached, his face hidden by a dark hood. But his eyes… they glowed. Electric blue. As if they didn't belong to this world.
Valeria stepped back. The box's pulse intensified. The lid shifted.
And then she heard it—a whisper. From inside.
"Remember what you forgot…"
"Who are you?" Valeria asked, her voice shaky but steady.
The man didn't answer. He reached toward the box.
"You're not ready yet," he said—though his lips didn't move. The words echoed directly in her mind. "But you've already begun."
The lid burst open. A gust of dark wind shot out and knocked her backward. She fell. And everything went black.
She woke up with her heart pounding like she'd run a marathon. She was in her bed. Sweaty. Gasping. But the box was still there. Closed. Untouched.
She looked at her hands. Nothing. Took a deep breath. Maybe it had all been a dream.
Until she felt the burn.
She lifted her shirt.
A thin, red line—freshly marked—crossed her right side. Like a wound. Like a… new scar.
There was no blood. But it hurt.
And it burned.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Valeria froze.
The clock read 5:42 a.m.
Who knocks at this hour?
She crept to the door silently. Peered through the peephole… No one.
Another knock.
Knock. Knock.
It wasn't coming from the door.
It was coming from the balcony.
She yanked the curtains open—and there he was.
A man. Different from the one in the dream.
Younger. Tall. Almost elegant. Dark suit. A folder in his hand.
Valeria felt her chest tighten.
"Miss Valeria Márquez?" he asked, in a neutral tone, like just another messenger.
She hesitated.
"Yes…"
He raised the folder but didn't hand it over.
"We need to talk. It's about the scars."
Valeria's world stopped.
"What do you know about the marks?" Valeria asked, still not opening the balcony door.
The man didn't blink.
"They're not marks. They're Mirror Scars."
Valeria frowned.
"What?"
"They're not entirely physical. They're the manifestation of unresolved memories. Wounds that didn't heal properly… And someone—or something—is using them to track you."
The folder he held had her name on it in bold black letters. "MÁRQUEZ, VALERIA."
"Who are you?" she asked.
"My name is Ezra. I work with a group that… studies cases like yours. People who feel things they can't explain. Who carry memories they didn't live alone."
Ezra opened the folder and pulled out a photo. It was her. Sixteen. And someone else standing beside her.
But she had no memory of that boy.
"What does this mean?"
"You opened the door years ago, Valeria. And now… someone wants to step in again."
Valeria took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.
She turned the handle. The balcony door creaked open slowly.
"Come in," she said.
Ezra stepped inside like he already knew the place. He walked to the center of the room and stood still, observing the walls, the books, the plants… even her childhood photos tucked into a shelf corner.
"How do you have that photo?" Valeria asked, pointing at the image from the dossier.
"I found it in an old archive. Officially, it doesn't exist. Just like you… at that moment."
"What does that mean?"
Ezra looked at her with something like pity.
"That there was a moment in your life that was… altered. Someone tampered with a memory. Or took it from you."
"Who would do something like that?"
"That's what we're trying to find out."
A chill ran down her spine. Valeria sat on the couch, her legs suddenly too weak to hold her.
Ezra laid the dossier on the table. He opened it. Inside were more photos. A map. A handwritten letter addressed to her… and the strangest thing: a torn page that looked like it came from her diary. A piece she didn't remember writing.
"I must not look for him. Not again. Because if I find him… I know I'll open the box."
"What is this?" she asked, touching the page.
"Your warning," Ezra said, voice low. "You wrote it, Valeria. But you're not the only one who's read it."
Valeria closed the door behind him, her heart still pounding. Ezra walked a few steps into the center of the room like he'd been there before. He didn't look around. He wasn't curious. He was here for something specific.
—"I didn't mean to scare you," he said without turning around. "But I couldn't leave you alone after what you saw."
—"What did you see?" Valeria asked, louder than she meant to.
Ezra turned slowly, a tired half-smile tugging at his lips.
—"The same as you. But I saw it long before you did."
A chill ran through her spine. The way he spoke… it was too precise. Too controlled. As if he was holding back more than he revealed.
—"Was Ariel a person?" she asked.
Ezra's eyes didn't flinch. His calm was unnerving.
—"Ariel is... a key. An unfinished story. But that's not what you need to know right now."
—"Then what do I need to know?"
—"That you're not alone, Valeria. Even when it feels like it. And if you keep opening doors... you need to be ready for what's on the other side."
Valeria couldn't tell if it was a warning or a promise. But when Ezra pulled a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to her, she knew the game had just changed.
It was a torn-out page from a journal. One just like hers.
Valeria held the page with trembling fingers. It wasn't her mother's handwriting, nor her sister's. It was older, more intense… as if the words had been written in a rush, almost in desperation.
"Sometimes I feel like I'm not alone. Not in this body. Not in this life. There are nights I wake up crying for something I've never lived… and others when I look in the mirror and swear those eyes aren't mine. Not entirely. I've hidden well, but I know someone will come looking for me eventually. Because this… this already happened. And it's happening again."
Valeria swallowed hard. The date was smudged, but she could make out the year: 1994.
She had been just one year old at the time.
She closed her eyes. A sharp twinge behind her neck made her flinch —as if something had been activated, as if a sleeping part of her memory whispered from the depths.
She opened her eyes abruptly.
—This wasn't written by just anyone —she murmured.
Ezra stayed silent, watching her with an intensity that unsettled her.
—Who wrote this? —Valeria asked, her eyes still fixed on the paper.
Ezra hesitated. Then, in a low voice, he said:
—Someone who, like you, was also marked.
A loud bang made Valeria drop the page. Something—or someone—had slammed into the front door. Ezra tensed immediately, rising in one smooth movement, as if he had been expecting it.
—Was that…? —Valeria didn't finish. The knock came again. Louder. Three times. Like a warning.
—Don't open it —Ezra said firmly.
Valeria stepped back, but her gaze locked on the entrance, drawn to it as if by some invisible force. A faint buzzing started vibrating in her ears.
Ezra stepped forward and touched her shoulder.
—You have to trust me. Whoever's out there isn't here to talk.
She swallowed hard. Every part of her screamed to run, to hide, to do something. But her feet wouldn't move.
Another bang. This time, the door rattled.
Ezra turned to her, urgency in his eyes.
—Hide. Now.
And before she could ask where, he grabbed her hand and pulled her into a small room at the back, shutting the door behind her with a sharp click.
Valeria stood there in the dark, her heart pounding… and the diary page still clutched in her fingers.
On the other side of the door, Ezra stopped. His breathing was uneven. His hand brushed the frame and closed around a hidden object in the wall—a short dagger, black as night, etched with symbols that seemed to shimmer in the dim light.
The knock came again. But this time... no footsteps followed. No voice. No breath. Just silence—so thick it prickled his skin.
Ezra narrowed his eyes. Whatever was out there wasn't human.
The door quivered with a soft creak, like something was testing it... caressing the edge, searching for a weakness.
—You're not ready yet —Ezra whispered, not to Valeria, but to the presence beyond.
Suddenly, a shadow slipped under the doorframe, like liquid smoke. Ezra stepped back and muttered words in a language long forgotten. The shadow vanished—but not before leaving a mark: a dark stain on the wood, spiraling like a brand.
He didn't clean it. He just stared at it, solemn, then turned back toward the hallway in silence.
Valeria, behind the closed door, didn't know something had chosen her. And that this door... was only the first.
Valeria slowly opened the box. The scent of old wood mixed with something else… a familiar perfume, faint but undeniable, that made her close her eyes for a second.
Inside was the usual: letters, a broken necklace, old photographs… and the journal.
But this time, something new rested on top of the pages.
An envelope, no return address. Her name, handwritten in shaky black ink.
She opened it with trembling hands. A single sheet.
"Don't trust Ezra. You don't remember, but he does. And this time, it won't be so easy to run."
Valeria's heart raced. Who had written it? When had it been placed there? How did they know what even she couldn't remember?
Before she could react, the mirror in her room vibrated. A flicker. A shadow on the other side. It wasn't her reflection.
It was herself… but with pitch-black eyes.
And then, a single word written on the fogged glass:
"Ariel."