Ending — Let It In
Brighter world • Names remembered • Mirrors that refuse
Cold pours through him like ink, filling every hollow space he thought he had sealed. It runs behind his eyes, beneath his nails, down into the marrow. The world sharpens—too clear, too awake. Neon bleeds into rain. He can hear the city breathing again, slow and alive, whispering his name in the static between car horns.
When he opens his eyes, everything has changed.
People turn to look when he passes. His name glows on gallery walls. His art floods the city, holy and haunted, as if the world had always belonged to him. Fame. Money. Praise. Everything he was promised. Everything he thought he wanted.
But he isn’t the one who has it.
He’s inside the glass now—weightless, silent, cold. His palms hit the surface but make no sound. Outside, the thing that wears his face walks free, its grin cut too wide, its eyes glinting with something inhuman. It moves with his rhythm, speaks with his voice, but when it laughs, the sound crawls under the skin.
Dio watches it walk down the street, rain beading on its jacket. People adore it, blind to the darkness leaking from its smile. The mirror hums around him, alive and waiting. Beneath the surface, faint shapes stir—others like him, trapped and watching, their mouths moving in soundless prayers.
The thing stops beneath a streetlight. It looks up, straight at the window where he’s imprisoned, and taps the glass from the outside. The sound cuts through him like a knife.
Then it turns toward home.
Panic surges through Dio’s chest. He can see her, the faint golden light from his mother’s window across the street, her silhouette moving slowly through the kitchen. She’s setting the table for two. She pauses, looks toward the rain-soaked glass, her brow furrowing as if she feels something watching.
“Don’t,” he whispers, voice lost inside the mirror. His hand slams against the barrier. “Don’t open the door.”
Outside, the creature smiles and starts up the steps to her door.
The mirror tightens around him, its surface rippling like a heartbeat. A voice rises from the dark within, smooth and endless.
“Every trade must continue,” it murmurs. “You took what was offered. Now you wait your turn.”
Dio screams, but no sound escapes. The light from the street burns white, swallowing everything in its path.
Beyond the glass, his mother opens the door.
The rain keeps falling. The city keeps breathing.
And somewhere deep in the mirror’s endless dark, Dio waits—for the next trade, for the next soul—to take his place.