The Story Begins — “The Magician’s Hollow Eve”

The first time Julian saw her ghost, it wasn’t under the blood-red glow of theatre lights, nor amidst the carnival of mirrors that had become his world. No, it was in the simplest, cruelest place: the reflection of a carriage window. He hadn’t been thinking of her that evening, though he lied to himself and said he always was. The city had been kind to him lately. His name, once scribbled at the bottom of tavern fliers, was now painted in gold-leaf on velvet banners that billowed across cobbled squares. Julian Hartwell: The Master of Mirages. Every seat sold, every eye desperate to be fooled. He smiled, bowed, made the world disappear for them—an illusionist of the highest order. But not that night.

The carriage had rumbled past the Ashcombe estate, though Julian had made it a habit not to look. The manor perched atop those cliffs like a beast licking old wounds. The sea beneath it crashed like it was trying to forget what it had swallowed. And yet, the glance was unavoidable. A boy’s habit, not a man’s. His eyes flicked up.

There she was.

In the glass, not the street. The reflection was soft, blurred by the breath of autumn air against the window. But there—curly locks tied in pale blue ribbons, a gaze like winter skies. She didn’t smile. Neither did he.

When he turned to face the seat across, it was empty. As it should have been.

The rumors had been merciless. “Elowen Ashcombe—took her own life, they say.” The whispers had always been sharp, but the sharpest of them all was Julian’s own voice, slicing through sleepless nights. “You did this.” Whether she jumped or was pushed, whether it was shame or despair, the outcome was the same. Bones. Blood. Gone.

But not gone enough.

It began subtly. A blue ribbon in the dressing room where no one had left it. The faintest melody of a piano arpeggio in the silence of an empty theatre. Her scent—jasmine and rain—lingering on his collar as if she had whispered too close. Julian, ever the magician, would craft a rational explanation for every occurrence. Stagehands were careless. Old habits of the mind. Tricks of scent and sound. But then came the mirror in his flat. A full-length monstrosity, gifted by some patron too wealthy to know better. It was in that glass that he saw her, clearly, cruelly, as she once was. Her lips formed no words. Only smiled. Only stared. “Elo,” he breathed, touching the glass.

Her hand met his.

His shows began to change. The magician who had once mocked the idea of true sorcery now stepped onto stage with eyes that hunted shadows. He began crafting routines that felt more like séances than performances. Cards that flew without strings. Doves that bled into nothingness. A finale where the reflection of a woman appeared in a suspended mirror, her blue ribbons billowing in an absent breeze. The audience roared in delight. They didn’t know he wasn’t performing anymore. He was searching.

But All Hallows’ Eve was different. The theatre had been abandoned for years—a crumbling, baroque cathedral of dust and forgotten names. He chose it for this night specifically. No audience. No lights. Just him, a mirror, and a single blue ribbon tied to the center of the stage. He had prepared no illusions. No wires, no trapdoors, no sleight of hand. Tonight, he didn’t want to perform.

He wanted to bring her back. “Elo,” he whispered into the vast, echoing dark, “if you’re here, don’t hide from me.” Nothing but silence. But then— laughter. Soft, girlish, curling around the rafters like smoke. The mirror’s surface rippled. And she stepped through. Not a ghost. Not a specter. But Elowen. As young, as alive, as he remembered. Her eyes were filled with tears that did not fall, her lips curled into a smile that hurt to see.

“You found me,” she said, though no sound touched his ears. He reached for her, but his hand passed through mist. She tilted her head, mischievous as ever, and beckoned him to follow. Into the mirror.

And Julian, ever the magician, obliged.