There Was Ice in Her Eyes:

The snow had fallen silently that morning, blanketing the town in a hush that felt almost sacred. Areeba stepped out of the taxi, her boots sinking into the powdery white as she stared at the residence she hadn’t visible in years. It regarded smaller now. Fragile. Like one gust of wind should disintegrate it.

She hadn’t come returned for nostalgia. Her mom became long past — a unexpected coronary heart attack, the acquaintances stated. No caution, no very last phrases. just silence. And now, the residence changed into hers.

Interior, everything became exactly as she remembered. The floral wallpaper, the dusty chandelier, the faint fragrance of rosewater and vintage wooden. but something felt… off. The mirrors, for one. every time she exceeded one, she felt watched. now not by way of herself — but via someone else. A baby. A female. usually standing simply at the back of her shoulder.

She informed herself it turned into grief. Fatigue. The mind playing tricks. but the feeling didn’t fade.

That night, she discovered the diary.

It was tucked inside a box labeled “iciness garments,” buried under scarves and gloves. the cover became smooth leather-based, worn at the edges. Her call was etched on the front — Areeba. but the handwriting inside wasn’t hers. not precisely.

The entries have been dated fifteen years in the past.

January 12th

She cried once more today. stated i was lying. stated I by no means had a sister. but I recall her. I consider the fireplace. I recall the promise.

Areeba’s breath caught. She flipped via greater pages, her palms trembling.

January 18th

I noticed her within the replicate again. She doesn’t communicate. simply stares. Her eyes are full of ice.

She closed the diary, coronary heart pounding. She didn’t take into account writing any of this. She didn’t bear in mind a sister. And there had never been a hearth. Had there?

the subsequent morning, she searched the attic. dust clung to her pores and skin like ash. bins, antique fixtures, a damaged rocking horse. after which — a image. Women. same. standing aspect by using facet in matching clothes. One smiling. One now not.

She stared at the picture for a long term. Her mom had in no way referred to a twin. never shown this photograph. by no means spoken of something past scraped knees and bedtime stories.

That night, the replicate woman came closer.

Areeba had fallen asleep on the couch, the diary clutched in her fingers. She woke to the sound of footsteps. smooth. bare. She turned in the direction of the hallway mirror — and there she became. The lady. pale. Silent. Her eyes glistening like frost.

Areeba whispered, “who are you?”

The lady raised a hand and pointed to the diary.

Areeba opened it once more, flipping to the very last entry.

February 2nd

She forgot me. Mama made her neglect. stated it was higher that way. however I recall. I keep in mind the cold. I keep in mind the scream. I recollect the promise. abruptly, it came lower back.

The fireplace. The attic. Her sister — Zoya. They were gambling with candles, pretending to summon ghosts. The curtains caught first. Then the cabinets. Then the ceiling. Areeba had escaped. Zoya hadn’t.

Her mom had buried the fact. instructed her it become a dream. Took her to therapy. modified the issue on every occasion she requested. eventually, Areeba stopped asking.

however Zoya hadn’t stopped waiting.

The next morning, Areeba lit a candle within the attic. She positioned the photograph beside it. She whispered her sister’s call aloud for the first time in fifteen years.

“Zoya.”

The air shifted. The attic grew hotter. The reflect in the hallway cracked — just slightly. And the girl inside the mirrored image smiled.