A gaping silence was her response. She climbed up into the attic. There were the boxes from earlier, but no Meg. She scanned the attic, noticing a disturbed cloth, and stepped towards it.
Maria smiled, seeing her Gram’ s antique mirror. She ran her fingers along the beautiful oak carvings, which were very worn and, in some places, scratched. Her reflection smiled back at her. Reverently, she pulled the cloth back over the beautifully preserved mirror. She rose, leaving the attic quietly, for it seemed nothing was out of place.
It seemed that way because Maria had not seen a figure, carved into the wood of the mirror frame. A figure of a fifteen-year-old girl with short, sandy hair. A figure that was startlingly lifelike. And perhaps most startlingly of all, it gleamed in its nascent, perfectly smooth, and horribly, dreadfully, new.