The Glass Cathedral: The Forgotten Death of Cinderella

In 1699, in the small duchy of Montreval, a young woman named Élise Beaumont was found dead inside a ballroom of mirrors. Every pane was fractured from the inside, yet her body lay untouched — preserved, immaculate, and barefoot.

The coroner wrote: “She looks as though she is waiting to wake.”

Her story had already become legend long before her death. Peasants whispered that she had risen from cinders to royalty overnight — chosen by a mysterious prince whose face no one remembered clearly. He was always described differently: too tall, too pale, eyes too bright, voice too soft.

Some said he wasn’t a man at all.

I. The Girl Who Spoke to Ashes

Élise was born in a manor ruined by fire. Her father, a merchant, vanished at sea, leaving her in the care of a cruel stepmother who prized beauty above breath.

But Élise had a gift — she could hear what burned things had to say.

When she swept the hearth, she claimed the ashes whispered secrets. “They remember,” she said. “Everything that’s been touched by flame keeps a voice.”

Her stepmother beat her for speaking madness. Yet, at night, Élise would sit before the embers and hum. The soot rose like breath. It almost seemed to listen.

II. The Ball

The royal invitation arrived sealed in blue wax — an emblem shaped like an hourglass. The letter promised a night where time itself would pause.

When Élise arrived, her gown shimmered like frost. Some say it was spun by a fairy godmother. Others say she found it in the ashes, buried beneath bones.

The ballroom was lit not by candles but by chandeliers filled with liquid glass — molten, glowing, dripping light onto the floor like honey. Every wall reflected infinity.

She danced.

But witnesses swore she wasn’t moving to the music — she was moving to something deeper. A hum, a pulse. Some even saw her mouth whispering words that did not match the orchestra’s tune.

Then the prince took her hand.

III. The Clock Strikes

At midnight, the mirrors began to fog. The musicians froze mid-bow. The candles blinked out.

The prince leaned close and whispered, “You are already mine.”

Élise pulled away — but found her reflection reaching back from the glass, gripping her wrist. The mirrored version of herself smiled. Its eyes were wrong — empty, luminescent.

The clock chimed once.

Her reflection whispered back: “You made a wish. I am the answer.”

The glass cracked.

Every surface began to bleed light. Guests fled. Some claimed the prince had turned to dust. Others said he walked into the mirror and vanished.

When the sun rose, only Élise remained — lying in the center of the ballroom, a single slipper beside her.

IV. The Investigation

Days later, the duke ordered the ballroom sealed. The mirrors were covered in black velvet. Yet every morning, the fabric was found torn down, the glass bare — reflecting no one.

A servant, before disappearing himself, wrote:

“Her image is still inside. I saw her breathe against the surface.”

Her slipper was analyzed. It wasn’t glass — it was calcified bone, translucent as quartz.

Scholars argued it was alchemy: a perfect human fossil. But when held up to the light, faint veins could be seen beneath its surface, still pulsing.

V. The Cathedral

A century later, the ruins of Montreval’s palace were converted into a church. The ballroom became a cathedral of mirrors. Pilgrims visited to see “the Sleeping Saint,” the girl said to have bargained with Time.

They called her Sainte Cendrillon.

During storms, the mirrors hum in unison, vibrating like a heartbeat. Those who enter barefoot report hearing whispers — thousands of voices murmuring through the floor.

Some say it’s the ash beneath the marble, remembering.

Some say it’s her.

VI. Epilogue

In 1997, restorers cleaning the cathedral discovered a hidden inscription behind the altar — carved in a hand too delicate for stone:

“I asked for one night that would never end.

He gave me eternity.

The clock still chimes inside me.”

The mirrors were removed and placed in storage, but two days later, every reflective surface in the cathedral — chalices, holy water, even the eyes of the statues — showed her face.

The restoration halted.

The site remains closed.

And in the archives of Montreval, under exhibit C-12, the final note attached to her slipper reads:

“Sample shows no decomposition. Still warm.”

🩶 The Glass Cathedral isn’t about love — it’s about the price of desire. Cinderella never escaped servitude; she only changed her master. Time itself became her cage.