My Daughter-in-Law Stole My Face With the Eclipse Mirror and Made Me Serve Her Feast — Now the Mirror Is Screaming My Name
The air in the pantry crackled with the raw despair of Julian and Seraphina. The mirror’s cries seemed to mock them, echoing their own anguish.
Julian’s face was twisted in a rictus of panic. He glanced from Seraphina’s withered face to the screaming velvet bundle, then to my serene, unyielding posture.
His hand shot out, grabbing a heavy iron hammer that lay near my chopping block. It was meant for breaking kindling.
“No!” Seraphina shrieked, but it was too late.
Julian raised the hammer, his arm shaking with desperate resolve. He aimed for the center of the velvet-shrouded mirror. He would smash it, shatter the source of their torment, even if it meant destroying the stolen face within.
But as his fingers closed around the mirror’s wooden frame to steady it for the blow, a jolt coursed through him. A visible tremor ran up his arm.
His eyes widened in shock.
He dropped the hammer with a clang that momentarily pierced the mirror’s wails. He stared at his hands.
His skin, once smooth and youthful, was visibly wrinkling. Deep lines etched themselves across his knuckles, his fingers thinned, and age spots bloomed on the back of his hands.
In moments, his hands looked like those of an old man, gnarled and frail.
Seraphina, watching his horror, let out a choked cry, a sound that quickly dissolved into ragged sobs. Her own withered face contorted in abject terror.
Julian held up his hands, turning them over, scrutinizing the sudden, irreversible decay. He tried to rub away the wrinkles, but they were stubbornly permanent.
He glanced at the hammer, then at the mirror, which continued its unending chorus of “Mother.”
The realization dawned on them, cold and brutal. They could not destroy the artifact without destroying themselves. The mirror was not just a tool; it was now a part of their very being, a living extension of their curse.
Seraphina’s wails joined the mirror’s, a pathetic counterpoint. Julian sank to his knees, his face buried in his suddenly aged hands.
They had brought the prison to my door, believing I held the key. But the locks were on them, crafted by their own hands.
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