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The Last Time I Saw Her, She...

The last time I saw her, she stood tall on the porch, hair like fire in the setting sun. Wind whipped her dress, white against the dark trees. Tears streamed down her face, but her eyes held no fear, only a strange calm.

"Wait!" I cried, leaping from the truck, heart hammering. But she turned, a ghost-smile on her lips, and vanished into the woods.

Days bled into weeks, my calls unanswered, her room untouched. The town whispered rumors: runaway, kidnapped, worse. I searched, desperate, the woods echoing with my name.

One night, the full moon casting silver shadows, I saw her light flickering in the distance. Hope surged, I sprinted, breath ragged. The cabin, once our haven, was now cold and dark. Her window, open. On the floor, a note, her familiar scrawl.

"Don't look for me. You won't like what you find."

Fear coiled in my gut, but I climbed. Inside, shadows danced on dusty furniture. Then, a glint - a mirror, shattered on the floor. My reflection, twisted, broken, fear etched deep. In my hand, a shard, sharp and cold.

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Panic choked me. Was this me? Had I done this?

Then, a whisper, faint and chilling. "That's not what I meant!"

I spun, but saw nothing. Only the wind moaning through the broken window. Was I losing my mind?

Suddenly, a creak on the stairs. Footsteps. Slowly, I drew back, shard clutched tight. The figure at the top froze, moonlight revealing... my mother. Relief washed over me, tears stinging my eyes.

"Thank God," I choked, "I thought..."

She stared at the mirror, then at me, her face pale. "We need to talk," she said, voice tight.

That night, beneath the full moon, my world shattered. The whispers, the fear, the note - all staged, a desperate plea for help. She was trapped, not by someone else, but by a secret buried deep in our family's past, a secret I was now a part of.

"That's not what I meant!" her words haunted me. She hadn't meant to push me away, but to protect me from a truth too dark to bear.

Together, we stepped into the shadows, the shattered reflection a grim reminder of the cost of secrets and the burdens we carry, whispered or not.