I stand, gazing blankly out the window, as the vivid, painful memories of recent events force their way through the haze of my mind. The dreadful moment of the gunshot plays over and over, haunting my thoughts with brutal precision. I remember the peaceful air of that evening, tinged with the scent of withered roses, as the last rays of the setting sun lingered on the dark stones of the bathroom. The world froze when a deafening crack shattered the calm a gunshot tearing through reality like a splintering blade. The silver bullet, cold and relentless, pierced the glass in an explosive burst, scattering shards like a deadly rain of stars.

I see myself there, standing with my hands outstretched, my body instinctively placing itself between the princess and the fatal projectile. It struck me with unbearable force, splintering through my chest, each shard of pain like a firestorm consuming my senses. My heartbeat collapsed into chaos, and the agony was blinding a dark flame that devoured all light until there was nothing but silence and void. Yet, inexplicably, I awoke. Against all logic, I survived, and the question of how loops endlessly in my mind, a torment I cannot escape.

In the small servant's quarters I call my own, faint sunlight seeps through the cracks in the warped shutters, casting flickering patterns on the rough stone floor. The walls, dull and weathered with age, seem to hold the whispers of those who once lived and breathed within them. Cobwebs hang in the corners of the darkened beams, gently swaying in the light, weaving tales of forgotten dreams and lingering nightmares.

The sparse furnishings a wobbly table, a creaky chair bear the scars of time, marked by burns and scratches as though past inhabitants left traces of their lives. The humble bed, tucked against the wall, is covered with a coarse woolen blanket, frayed in places. A faint scent of lavender lingers in the linens, a futile attempt to mask the ever-present dampness that clings to the room.

On a rickety dresser rests a cracked mirror. In this interplay of light and shadow, the wind seeps through the gaps in the walls, making the floorboards groan with a ghostly melody. Sometimes, it feels as if the building itself breathes, sighing softly under the weight of years. My fellow servants told me I had slept for twenty-four hours straight a slumber so deep it seemed almost deathlike. They insist I take a full week of rest, their concern evident. And I understand why. After all, how can I still be alive after a bullet pierced my heart?

I remember the shock, the way my heart stopped with a devastating finality. But now, something else torments me a fire, an insatiable blaze, burning deep in my throat.

I am thirsty.

But this thirst is not one I recognize. No water or drink can quench it. No, this thirst is wild, ravenous, primal.

A thirst for blood.

My mind recoils at the thought, but the yearning is there, raw and undeniable, pulsing beneath my skin. Horrified, I drag myself to the crooked mirror on the wall. I need to see myself, to confirm what I’ve become. Yet, when I gaze into the glass, there is nothing.

No reflection stares back at me.

I reach out to touch the mirror’s frame, pulling and prodding at its edges, hoping my exhausted mind is playing tricks on me. But it’s useless. My reflection is gone. Panicking, I rush to the window, searching for any trace of myself in the glass panes, but they show only the world beyond. Even the clear water in a jar by my bedside refuses to reveal my face.

I no longer exist in this world of reflections.

My legs buckle, and I collapse onto the bed, my breath shallow and uneven. A solitary tear escapes my eye, trailing down my cheek before falling onto the coarse fabric of my dress. The sensation of that tear, salty and soft, feels foreign to me now like a fleeting fragment of the humanity I’m losing. This growing darkness, this unquenchable thirst, is devouring me, pulling me into an abyss I do not understand but cannot escape.