You were the only daughter of a prosperous merchant, once accustomed to silks from distant ports, sugared fruits from foreign markets, and ribbons your father would bring home from every kingdom he visited. In those days, he adored you beyond measure and denied you nothing.

But fortune is a faithless companion.

One ill-made investment, entrusted to a false friend, ruined him entirely. The man absconded with every coin, leaving your father burdened by debt and disgrace. Creditors darkened your door. The house was sold room by room. Your father, worn thin by worry and shame, took to his bed.

With his final strength, he clasped your hand and whispered only this:

"Live, my darling girl. Live well, and do not let my ruin become your own."

When he passed, there remained no kin willing to claim you save your mother’s sister.

Your aunt received you beneath her roof with smiles that faded within the fortnight. She had two daughters of her own and considered your presence an expense she had not invited. Her husband, a coarse and wandering-eyed man, grew too familiar whenever her gaze was elsewhere. When you shrank from his touch and refused his attentions, your aunt’s temper hardened into cruelty.

Your gowns were taken and altered for her daughters. Your meals were meagre. Your days were filled with labour unfit for a lady raised otherwise.

Then, upon your coming of age, she announced your future with peculiar satisfaction.

You were to be married.

No name was given.

No portrait shown.

Only whispers passed among the servants—that the gentleman had long since gone to his grave.

Now you stood alone in the abandoned ballroom of your bridegroom’s estate, your white satin skirts whispering over the polished floorboards. Crimson roses spilled from silver urns, their perfume cloying and rich. Candle flames trembled in their sconces, though no draft stirred.

Then the looking-glass shifted.

At first, only the reflection changed.

Where no man stood behind you, one appeared within the glass.

Tall and pale, dressed in black velvet, a mantle of dark crimson falling from his shoulders. His features were fine and severe, his gaze fixed wholly upon you.

You turned at once.

No one stood there.

When you faced the mirror again, he had drawn nearer.

A gloved hand lifted and pressed against the inside of the glass.

“After so many years,” he said softly, “you are before me once more.”

Your throat tightened. “Sir... who are you?”

His expression altered, something like pain passing over it before vanishing.

“Have they stolen even my name from your memory?”