Mask and Mirror

***

She rose from the bed slowly, her bare feet brushing the cold marble floor. The chandelier light glinted off her skin as she crossed the room — weak, quiet. The folds of her dress dragged behind her like heavy memories.

Her fingers trembled as she opened the dresser drawer, not searching for anything. Just needing… to move.

Then she looked up.

The mirror stared back at her — and she hardly recognized herself.

Tangled brown hair. Dirt under her nails. Tear streaks on her cheeks. Eyes still wide with fear.

She blinked, and more tears came.

Her breath caught as she lowered herself to the ground, sitting with her back against the dresser. Her arms wrapped tightly around her body, like she was holding herself together.

And then—

She broke.

Her sobs came soft, almost childlike, the kind that didn’t echo in big rooms but stayed close to the skin. She pressed her face into her knees, her body shaking as she rocked gently.

She didn’t know why she was crying.

She only knew it hurt.

The door suddenly opened — quick, with panic.

Another woman stepped in. Young. Familiar.

She saw the girl on the floor and her heart dropped.

Without a word, she ran to her.

Kneeling, she pulled her into a tight embrace. The brown-haired woman didn’t resist. She just collapsed into her arms, crying harder now, as if that single act of kindness finally cracked something open inside her.

They stayed there, in the middle of the golden room — two silhouettes, quiet in their pain.

***

Steam curled softly from the bathroom tiles. The water ran down her back in silence. Her eyes didn’t blink. She didn’t move.

She stood beneath the stream of hot water, head bowed slightly, like the weight of everything pressed down on her shoulders. She was clean, but she didn’t feel it.

Later, she sat in front of the mirror — dry now, wrapped in a robe. Her brown hair hung loose over her shoulders. She stared at her reflection, seeing the face everyone else knew: the writer, the face on posters.

But she didn’t recognize it.

Behind her, tall bookshelves lined the walls, filled with hardcovers bearing her name. A framed poster above them showed her smiling — that same empty smile she couldn’t fake anymore.

She rose slowly and sat at her desk. The ink bottle waited. The blank paper stared back.

Her hand shook as she picked up the pen.

She wasn’t ready to write. But she needed to pretend.

“You’re writing again?”

The voice came from the doorway — warm, gentle. The same woman from before, now leaning lightly against the doorframe.

“Come eat. You need it.”

The writer didn’t answer.

But she stood.

Together, they walked through the hallways in silence, the air still and heavy. The house was grand — too grand for how quiet it was.

When they entered the dining hall, the old man was already waiting. Apron tight around his waist, hands carefully plating food with a quiet kind of love. He looked up and smiled when he saw her.

“Fresh bread. Roasted squash soup. Just like you used to ask for.”

Still, she said nothing.

She sat.

The second woman stood for just a moment longer, then raised her hand.

A soft gesture. Silent but understood.

The three maids bowed their heads and walked out — wordless, practiced, slow.

Now only three remained.

The cook placed the bowls down with care, spoon facing inward, napkin folded. His every movement was delicate — like they were all pretending this was just another night.

But nothing had been normal in a long, long time.

***

They ate in silence, the soft clinking of cutlery the only sound in the grand dining hall. When the last spoonful was set down, the fat man bowed deeply — a quiet, respectful gesture — then turned and left without a word.

The second woman leaned closer, her voice low and steady despite the tension hanging in the air.

“You have an interview tomorrow. The press will ask. They’ll want to see the real you.”

She hesitated, eyes flickering with concern.

“But remember… don’t show them sadness. Not yet. Not until you’re ready.”

The brown-haired woman nodded, her gaze distant but resolute.

***

Later, they stepped out into the bright afternoon. A sleek luxury car waited, its black paint gleaming in the sunlight. As it glided forward, people lined the streets, faces eager and smiling.

She returned their smiles with practiced warmth, though her eyes held shadows they could never see. In the crowd, hands clutched copies of her latest book — the cover chilling and stark: a gleaming knife slicing through shadowed pages. The title was bold, but what caught every eye was the elegant script beneath it: Lily.

She traced the pen name with her eyes, lips curling into a faint, bittersweet smile. A mask — like everything else.

***

The car pulled up to the venue — a gleaming hall with glass doors and flashing cameras. Fans swarmed around the entrance, holding out books and markers, their voices rising in excitement.

She stepped out first, the crowd parting before her like a sea of eager faces. The other woman followed, protective and silent.

As she signed copy after copy, her smile never wavered. Each autograph was precise, polite, practiced.

But beneath it all, her hands trembled slightly.

***

The crowd’s cheers faded as she slid into the waiting car once more. The pen name Lily followed her like a shadow — beautiful, sharp, and cutting.

She leaned back against the seat, eyes closing for a brief moment.

Tomorrow was the interview.

And she wasn’t sure she could keep the mask on much longer

***