Gemotions

The doorbell rang, shattering the quiet of the morning. It was a package. "For Mrs. Anya Petrova." The name itself was a whisper of the past, a phantom echo of a life she'd desperately tried to outrun.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the door. Her pulse quickened. Anya Petrova had been a different person, with a different life, a different pain. She’d tried to leave it behind.

She picked up the box. It seemed to pulse with a dark energy. Inside, wrapped in layers of brown paper, was a mirror. The glass reflected her distorted features, the lines of worry etched deep. She dropped the mirror and ran.