He didn’t look away from the windowpane, where the woman’s form had become a wisp, a ghost of a ghost, shimmering like the heat rising from a summer road, before dissolving completely into the grey light of Aberddu. Gwyllgi nudged his hand with his wet snout, a low whimper rattling in his broad chest. The quiet that followed felt heavier than the rain beating against the roof, pressing hard against his ribs.
He pocketed his phone, the unknown number’s threat a dull echo compared to the stark image of her desperate plea. He stared at the empty pane, then at his own twin in the glass, where a deep scowl stared back. He ran a hand over his face, the stubble rough beneath his palm. She was gone. Not just from the window, but from the sense of lingering presence that had filled the conservatory. The air felt colder, emptier.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. Gwyllgi nudged him again, then padded over to a puddle of rainwater collected in a broken terracotta pot, sniffing at the dark surface. Rhys watched him, a thought sparking. Shards. Rainwater. The wet window. He drew a small, oval silver pocket-glass from his inside coat pocket, a keepsake from his mother, its backing tarnished with age. He’d carried it since he was a boy, a superstitious habit.
He held it up, angling it towards the gloom of the room, then towards his own face. Nothing but his weary eyes and the blurred outline of the decaying conservatory. He turned it slowly, searching. A glint caught the corner of the glass, like fractured lantern light. He focused, holding his breath.
There. Faint, at first, a ripple in the silvered glass. Then, her face materialized, sharper than before, as if the smaller surface concentrated her essence. The same sharp intelligence in her eyes, though now shadowed with an immense fragility. She looked younger inside the silver oval, less a wraith and more a living woman trapped behind winter ice.
“Ffion?” he whispered, the name feeling strange, foreign on his tongue. Her lips parted in the reflection, moving without sound. He leaned closer, straining to read the shape of her mouth. Her brow furrowed, a flicker of frustration in her eyes.
Sound would not cross over. He tried to speak slower, enunciating each syllable. “Can you… can you hear me?”
Her twin in the glass gave a slow, deliberate nod. A hard spark flared in his chest—a path forward, tenuous as it was. “You’re… bound to this house, aren’t you? Bound to every polished surface?”
Another nod. This time, her eyes held a hint of resignation. He gestured around the vast, hushed house. “You can’t leave Tŷ Haearn?” She shook her head, a dark strand falling across her cheek in the glass.
“Why were you here, Ffion?” he pressed, keeping his voice low, almost a murmur. “What happened to you?”
Her gaze became distant, unfocused, as if peering into a deep, dark well. Her lips moved again, forming words with immense effort. *“Can’t… remember.”*
Rhys’s pulse hitched. He leaned closer. “Nothing at all? Not the night it happened?”
Her shape wavered, the silvered pool rippling as if disturbed by an unseen current. The sharpness in her eyes dissolved into a profound distress. Her hands, skeletal in the reflection, rose, pressing against her temples. Her lips formed words again, more frantic this time. *“Blank… nothing… just… cold.”*
He watched the torment pull at her features as her translucent outline strained against the glass boundary. “You mean… you don’t know who killed you?” The question felt brutal, but he had to ask. This was the core of it, wasn't it?
She shook her head, a solitary tear tracking down her cheek in the glass. Her face was a mask of despair, the intelligent spark extinguished by the vast void of her missing memory. The killer’s face, the weapon, the blow—all wiped clean. It left a raw void in her features, dark and bottomless.
Bitterness bit deep into his throat. How could he run down a killer when the victim held no name, no face? His teeth ground together as he stared into the polished silver. “There must be something. A feeling. A sound. Anything.”
She closed her eyes, her pale shape flickering against the metal frame, threatening to dissolve. When she opened them, the desperation had deepened. Her lips moved, slowly, forming new words. *“Fading… with the tides.”*
He didn’t understand. “Fading? What do you mean?”
*“Moon… new moon… takes a piece.”* Her mouth shaped the words with frantic clarity. *“Memory… essence… gone.”*
Rhys’s gut tightened. “Gone? You’re… you’re dissolving?” The words were an accusation, a raw fear. He knew the stories of Aberddu, the river magic, the whispers of the Mire taking its due. But this… this was real. And it was happening to her.
She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Her face in the glass was growing sheer, its edges thinning into grey fog. *“Thirteenth Tide… no more.”*
Thirteenth Tide. An old river-lore warning of final dissolution. The chill crept under his collar, colder than the river mud seeping through floorboards. A countdown. This wasn’t just a cold case; it was a race against an impossible, magical clock.
“How long?” he asked, his voice strained. “How many tides are left?”
Her gaze drifted past the silver edge, a hollow bleakness settling over her mouth. She raised one hand, folding her knuckles down into a pale fist until only three fingers remained upright. *“Three.”*
Three new moons. Three tides. Gwyllgi whined at his boots, tail brushing damp flagstones, broad head cocked toward Rhys as if reading the sudden drop in air pressure.
Rhys looked back at Ffion’s face framed in tarnished silver, tenuous as river foam. He thought of the text message, the immediate threat. “Who sent the message, Ffion? The one telling me to leave.”
Her likeness flickered in the silver, twisted by a sudden wince. Her mouth formed three soundless words, stark against the darkening glass. *“My sister, Morwenna.”*