Red or Blue, My Lady?

The first note arrived in a velvet envelope, sealed with wax and the faint scent of lavender. It was placed carefully on Eleanor Whitford’s windowsill, where no postman could have reached. The message inside? Just five words: “Red or blue, my lady?”

Eleanor frowned, rereading the note beneath the soft morning light that spilled into her third-floor flat. A prank, perhaps? She lived alone, her friends were scattered across states, and no one had called her “my lady” since she’d quit the Renaissance fair circuit six years ago.

Still, something about the handwriting unsettled her—elegant but unfamiliar, looping with a practiced confidence.

That evening, another note appeared.

This time, it was on her pillow.

“Red speaks of power. Blue whispers of truth. Choose wisely.”

There was no signature, no sign of forced entry. Just another whisper of lavender and the faint shimmer of the wax seal, this time stamped with a symbol: a mirror cracked down the middle.

Eleanor’s heart began to race. The notes felt like riddles from a world that didn’t play by her rules—a world she wasn’t sure she believed in anymore. But then again, her grandmother used to say strange things before she passed. "Some bloodlines run closer to the veil," she’d mutter while stirring tea leaves or brushing Eleanor’s curls.

By the third day, Eleanor received two ribbons—one crimson, one sapphire—tied neatly to her doorknob. The final note read:

“At midnight, place your choice around your neck. The path will reveal itself.”

Half an hour before midnight, Eleanor stood in front of the mirror, both ribbons laid out before her like offerings. Her fingers hovered over red first. It called to her boldly, like fire, ambition, defiance. Then to the blue—soft, calming, honest.

She chose blue.

The moment the ribbon grazed her neck, the world shuddered.

The mirror clouded.

And her reflection… blinked.

Not mimicked. Blink.

The glass didn’t show her—it showed a version of her, older, gaunter, eyes sunken and weary. Eleanor gasped, stepping back, but the mirror-self stepped forward.

“You chose truth,” it said, voice like wind through dry leaves. “So truth you shall see.”

And with that, the mirror shattered—not violently, but as if falling away like old skin. Behind it was a corridor, narrow and dark, lit by faint blue flames.

She stepped through.

The hallway led to a hidden version of her world. People walked backward, clocks ticked counterclockwise, and the stars above were the wrong constellations. In this twisted realm, Eleanor learned that every major choice in her life had a parallel—a red or blue moment. And in many of those paths, she had chosen red: she had chased power, popularity, and comfort. But each red choice cost her a little piece of herself—her friendships, her voice, her dreams.

Only by choosing blue—truth—had she opened this door to remembrance.

A guide appeared in the form of her childhood self, holding a broken toy camera.

“You stopped seeing clearly,” young Eleanor said. “Now’s your chance to remember.”

For what felt like hours, she walked through visions of what could have been, what should have been, and what still might be. Not with regret—but with awakening.

When she finally returned through the veil, morning light greeted her.

The ribbon was gone.

But in her hand was a note.

“You chose truth. You chose you. That is always the harder path. Walk it well.”

Eleanor never received another note. But she no longer needed one.

She quit the job she hated. Reached out to her estranged sister. Enrolled in art school. She spoke up more, stood straighter, and stopped apologizing for taking up space.

Sometimes people would ask her what changed.

She would smile and simply say, “I picked blue.”

Moral :

In a world full of red choices—glamour, quick wins, and easy lies—choosing blue, the path of truth and authenticity, often feels invisible. But it is through those honest, often difficult decisions that we reclaim ourselves. Choose wisely. Choose you.