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In the quiet town of Rosedale, nestled between misty hills and forgotten woods, there was a legend most parents whispered about only after nightfall. It wasn’t the kind of tale they told their children—it was too strange, too unsettling. It started, they said, with two girls… and a single fingerprint.

Autumn had just taken over the countryside when Lila and Amara arrived at Blackpine Boarding School. The air smelled of dead leaves and something faintly metallic. The school was old—over a hundred years of forgotten corridors, hidden staircases, and rotting wooden beams that creaked even when the wind was still. The girls were both sixteen, both orphans, and had both been transferred under curious circumstances. They met on the first day and became inseparable, bound by a mutual sense of being unclaimed by the world.

What they didn’t know—what no one could explain—was that their records at the school listed them as twins.

Twins with the same birthday. Same height. Same blood type.

And the same fingerprint.

Lila discovered it first during biology class when the students were asked to ink and examine their thumbprints. She noticed her swirl matched Amara’s perfectly. Identical—not just similar. Identical.

“I think this is wrong,” Lila had whispered, showing her print to Amara.

Amara blinked, comparing it to her own. “Maybe it’s just smudged,” she suggested, but her voice wavered.

They asked the teacher if the machine might be faulty. The teacher smiled tightly and said, “Machines don’t lie, girls. But sometimes… people do.”

From that moment, something began to shift.

Lila started waking up in places she didn’t remember walking to—once in the library basement, the next time on the roof. Amara, too, experienced strange memory lapses, and once found herself staring at the mirror in the girls’ bathroom, with no idea how she got there, her mouth bloody as if she’d bitten down hard on her own tongue.

One evening, as the fog rolled in thick over the grounds, they decided to investigate the abandoned dormitory building—the North Wing. No one had used it in years, the staff said it was condemned after a fire decades ago. But Lila had been dreaming about it, night after night, a low corridor with peeling green paint and a locked iron door at the end.

They found the door just like in the dream.

It wasn’t locked.

Inside was a room untouched by time. A twin-sized bed, moldy but made up neatly. A wardrobe. A full-length mirror with a long crack down the center. And on the desk… a photograph.

Two girls.

One face.

Lila and Amara stared at the photograph. It was them, but not them—wearing old-fashioned uniforms, eyes wide and solemn. On the back, scribbled in shaky ink, were the words:

“One must forget. One must remember. If they ever become one… she returns.”

That night, they dreamt together. They saw a third girl—pale as frost, hair dripping like she’d been underwater, mouth sewn shut with black thread. She stood in the center of the cracked mirror, watching them. When Amara asked her name, the girl didn’t answer. She just raised one finger—her thumb—and pointed at it.

Blood dripped down her hand.

They woke screaming.

From then on, the mirror in their dorm wouldn’t reflect properly. It shimmered faintly, like something lurked just beyond. Sometimes they would catch glimpses of themselves moving when they were perfectly still. Sometimes, they saw the third girl, waiting.

They tried to tell someone. The headmistress scolded them for “nonsense.” The school nurse gave them sleeping pills. Their classmates started whispering, then ignoring them. Only one old janitor muttered a warning as he passed them in the hall:

“You girls shouldn’t be here. Not both of you. Only one ever made it out.”

They found his body two days later, hanging in the bell tower. Written in blood beneath him:

“Two souls. One shell. The mirror remembers.”

As the days passed, Lila began to change. She moved differently, spoke less. Her eyes seemed darker, her reflection slower. Amara tried to shake her out of it, but Lila barely responded. One night, Amara woke to find her standing over the bed, watching her silently. Her thumb was smeared in something red.

“Whose blood is that?” Amara had whispered, trembling.

Lila didn’t answer.

Amara ran.

She ran to the North Wing, back to the room with the cracked mirror. She stood in front of it, begging the third girl to show her the truth.

The mirror shimmered… and became a window.

She saw flashes—two girls at birth, one stillborn, the other alive. A nurse panicking, covering the mistake. A desperate decision. A forbidden ritual. A sharing of identity. One life split across two bodies.

One soul… divided.

That’s when the truth hit her.

She was never meant to exist. Or Lila wasn’t. Or maybe neither of them. They were one soul forced into two vessels, and the mirror was the key. A prison and a doorway. The third girl wasn’t a ghost.

She was the original.

And she wanted her body back.

The reflection rippled. Lila appeared beside her, or something wearing her face.

“You saw it,” she said. Her voice was hollow, like it echoed from a deep well. “She’s almost here. When we touch the mirror together, she will be whole again.”

“No,” Amara backed away.

“Yes,” Lila stepped forward, hand outstretched. “It’s the only way. We don’t belong here. Not like this.”

They fought. The mirror crack widened as they grappled, blood smearing across its surface. Then, in one final moment of desperation, both girls pressed their palms against it.

The glass swallowed them.

Silence.

Days later, the dorm was empty. No sign of Lila or Amara. The North Wing was sealed again.

But in the biology lab, a new fingerprint test was left behind.

One fingerprint.

Two names.

And in the cracked mirror of the old dorm room, if you look closely, sometimes you can still see two girls.

But only one walks away.

End