The bus was suffocatingly crowded when she boarded.  

Vying for a seat in the back, Seraphina carefully scooched her way across the aisle and blessedly found one of the backmost windows unfilled, so she dropped her luggage on the adjacent cushion and released an enervated sigh as she collapsed against the windowsill. The heady chatter of the other passengers staggered off into meaningless background noise as the engine whirred and the vehicle crawled forward, jostling her when it immediately collided with a notch in the road and fingers stretched across her forehead to soothe her bullied temples. The girl shuffled uncomfortably as she turned to interview passing undulations of bleary light, contrasted against the imminent gloaming like faint stars freckled across the firmament, her thoughts beginning to teeter off as her deep-seated exhaustion made itself known like disease subsuming her bones.  

... If Seraphina decided to sell the house, it would at least tie her over for a bit until she could find proper work. And yet, it felt like what little willpower she could still boast about had withered the instant she decided to return to that sorrowful house— that crypt. And there were poltergeists therein, violent manifestations of their lingering resentments and regrets that had latched onto her back when she crossed the foyer, daring to revisit that forbidden ground as if hoping she would find something amid the decay, but there were only defiled graves and reminiscences of long-forgotten chastity she could never return to. 

 A soul-sucking parasite and a rock on her shoulders sapped her strength and she was tired. She was tired of aimless wandering and distrusting everything and everyone. Of trying and struggling and enduring even after the flesh has already rotted off her very marrow only to be met with inevitable failure. She could not be expected to live for herself when she knew innately that her existence afforded little for this world and how terribly easy it would be to hop on a train and disappear and at which point, no one would question it if they found her room abandoned because she may as well have never been born in the first place. Transparent. Ugly. Futile.  

... And if she did choose to escape, who would even consider stopping her?  

A star blitzed across the crepuscule; a searing burst of white heat swallowed by the city line. And Seraphina realized that it was not as if she truly desired death. Doubtless there were few who genuinely do, but whether it was a passive impulse or an expectation, with the sorry way that she was currently handling the labor of living, nothing more than a slog that reaped next to no rewards, was there much of a discernible difference between soil in her mouth and this fatuous persistence?  

Seraphina pulled away from the window and hunched over as she cradled the abnormal tome like it was an arm in lieu of insentient leather. And yet, she would be seen as presumptuous if she happened to wish for something as farfetched as happiness, no?  

The bus came to a screeching halt. Seraphina was nearly thrust into the cushion in front of her from the momentum, steadying herself with her hands with a grunt of surprise. “The hell?”  

Seraphina was astonished when she was forced out of her mind and back into reality, noticing that the entire vehicle had been abruptly emptied out sans the driver, her surroundings eerily silent. An unprecedented sense of unease crawled down her spine as she cautiously maneuvered out into the aisle to check between the booths. An inky darkness encompassed their purview beyond the confines of the steel box, but Seraphina told herself that she must have gotten sidetracked and simply missed her stop, but she could not entirely quell the suspense rising in her gut as a dribble of sweat glissaded down her forehead. In the end, she was little else but a sitting duck as she was now, so she reasonably opted to investigate and hurriedly foregathered her things, making for the front of the bus.  

Though when she approached the driver for information, she was stunned to find that there was little left of the old man she had briefly greeted on her way in, superseded by a faceless apparition: a haunting amalgamation of coalesced shadows with no definitive form. While Seraphina searched for the correct response, the nebulose figment wordlessly extended an arm, at least, that was what she interpreted, but it sincerely was little else than an amorphous cloud of sentient fog— and slowly cranked open the entranceway, reintroducing her to the dense tenebrosity that seemed to blanket their environment like a thick curtain of smog. In the end, she settled for a cautious nod of thanks and decidedly played along, slowly descending from the tall drop and swooping down onto what appeared to be grass, soft and crunchy under her shoes in juxtaposition to asphalt.  

The path forward was completely obscured, however. It was as if she had been imprisoned several feet underground; an aphotic darkness like the deepest layers of the ocean where no light could predictably thrive. Her fear catapulted as she desperately scored her surroundings for any manner of indication or notable echo of life, a motherless child left to amble the streets at night alone. It was then that she discovered that the bus had already driven off, though it might be more accurate to say that it had vanished altogether, stranding her. Seraphina began to lose track of her breathing as she clawed at the strange book, its emphatic weight tethering the last of her retreating sanity, pleading for something she had renounced long ago, for her specter to return prematurely when she falls from that silver star and embrace her daughter even if the thought had never occurred to her heretofore.  

And when the star fell, it was not the comforting voice of a mother that would have never loved her. But a lamppost. The fleeing sparkle crashed to the dirt and discharged an aura of vibrant, lingering light. And in its wake, like the sputtering droplets of a sudden and intense downpour, its kin dropped at her feet, crackling in shocks of illumination and coming together to weave a path as if to show her the way. Although Seraphina was initially mistrustful of the situation, it would be more sensible to follow along as opposed to brainlessly backtracking when she scarcely knew where the road began and ended at this rate. Resolved, Seraphina metaphorically dug her feet into the ground and carried unwilling legs forth, the starry bridge eventually distinguishing her surroundings from the asphyxiating cage of darkness as she beheld the beginnings of a mystic forest engirded by thatches of ivory-white trees, their great, twisted boughs ornamented by consecrating stardust.  

As Seraphina tentatively surveyed her unhidden environment, the allegorical mist dissipated, allowing her to reenact the full scope of her vision, she ultimately caught sight of the unmistakable silhouette of a grand dome-shaped tower. The pellucid trail of stars puttered away like the remnants of a dead flame when she approached, enringed by a tight web of trees that deterred further travel ensconced by a bright argent plenilune, wrapped around the head of the spire like a corona where it was suspended on a brief incline. Stone intricately chiseled like pure marble embellished by orphic statues of seraphical beings praying with their faces sequestered behind canopies of feathers, safeguarding the reliefs. A large rose window of exquisite, multicolored stained glass crowned the top of the wide unsealed entrance, forming sacred, kaleidoscopic patterns and voiceless stories. 

 As if entranced, Seraphina forwent her previous vigilance and ascended the moon-white steps to embark inside, eyes squinting as pale candlelight eviscerated the gloom where braziers refracted mighty silverish flames. The interior featured a commodious, rounded chamber with a circular pedestal pinioned in the middle surrounded by a ring of silver water, almost resembling that of a tiered fountain, faucets draining gleaming streams into the pool. A resplendent illustration was frescoed across the ceiling directly overhead portraying a goddess-like figure with silver hair flecked by stardust, shards of diamantine crystals embedded in her long illusory locks, draped in a flowy shimmering mantle like she had engulfed the cosmos with her hands enclosed in the semblance of a prayer. Rows of towering, levitating mirrors lined the circumference of the hall, and Seraphina found herself dropping her excess luggage when she encountered distinct movement in the reflection closest to the entrance, recycling an ancient memory. 

Two children, giggling with their hands embraced as they scurried through a brilliant grove decorated with shrubs of pure white thorns, backdropped by the silver night when all has gone quiet and their world could safely begin without the prying eyes of cruel adults and the ruthless hands tearing open buttons and the blood poured on the front of her blouse where it burned in her throat.  

The story continued as the innocent figures escaped into the adjacent mirror. This time, the prince had taken a dagger to carefully scratch off the barbs, and thereafter rewarded his elvish friend with a genteel smile as he stashed the snowy bloom behind her ear. The girl burst into an infectious grin and took the boy off guard when he braced her as she lunged full force into him, though he managed to steady them before they could unintentionally tumble into the briars.  

That time when the prince had tenderly treated a scrape she received when she took a bad fall because of an untied lace. When he had helped her nurse that injured, white deer after it had stumbled in from the surrounding woods with a twisted leg. A picnic packed with all her favorite sweets and stargazing until she eventually dozed off while curled into his side.  

Anecdotes from her childhood, recycled ideas derived from long-forgotten plotlines. A boy she could have only known in her dreams—  

And she could easily satisfy her confusion and posit that this was surely no different.  

Seraphina faced the altar. The grimoire in her hands hissed and thrashed like a fussy infant. A bloated balloon, its wild contents began to seep out, as searing as melted wax. She bit the inside of her cheek and firmly smothered it against her chest as she anxiously embarked forward, sidestepping a wide arch at the foot of the steps and slowly voyaging upward.  

When she reached the main platform, she discerned the existence of a lone shrine boasting an intent that reflected the distinct mold of a tome. She appraised hers as it fidgeted excitedly; a wordless incitement. And when she ultimately chose to deposit it therein, the book was magically forced open as pages fluttered chaotically, compelling her to take a step back and brace her eyes in stupefaction when the oracular ornamentation carved into the marble irradiated blindingly. She lowered her arm and watched dumbly as frantic page-faces calmed, landing on a blank canvas that slowly exposed invisible lettering as the alien text was burned along the margins in searing gold. When Seraphina nervously inched closer to perceive the passage, although the language was fantastical and hieroglyphic, she was able to understand it and recite it with indescribable ease, the words flowing through her mouth like it was but pure instinct.  

“... “Peer through the rogue mirror, a fickle dawn disfavored by the dark side of the moon— and rebind the shattered truth.”  

A conjuration. An enigmatic tongue she had never spoken in. And yet, it was as much a part of her as the breath that streamed through her veins. It was instinctual. It was— home. Her chest felt heavier— a bird smothered in a cage, tugging violently at steelclad bars. She felt unimaginably breathless as hands clawed irrationally at her shirtfront, desperately trying to anchor herself; her body and soul disjointed and misaligned, incompatible with one another. The grimoire roared. Spasming, shooting off blinding projectiles of misguided essence, erratic, incandescent magic like zaps of thunder, shattering the mirrors as glass splintered, the shrapnel catching her cheek. 

The pain had grounded her, at least. Seraphina gasped like she had been trapped underwater and hastily clawed back to the surface. Shooting fireworks of hot, raw power ricocheted in all directions; and she bit the back of her molars, daringly lunging into the eye of the storm like she was wrangling a disobedient child. However, she was forced to instantaneously retract her hands as a shout of agony was punched from her throat because the accursed thing felt like it was on fire. She winced when her palms bled pink, scabbed, and sizzled as sharp aftershocks of fiery electricity worried broken skin.  

Instinct told her that she could not afford to leave without it, however. Therefore, Seraphina braved the proverbial cyclone, singed flesh protesting vehemently as she pushed through the pain coiled her fingers around the incandescent edges, and anchored it against her hammering chest. She subsequently booked it down the steps and out of the temple before she could be held accountable for any such collateral damage, albeit her grand getaway was impeded when she stumbled outside and realized that her environment had spontaneously and unmentionably shifted.