Miras: - Nora Roberts

Then he stopped in front of the back room. The door was closed, bolted. “What’s in there?”

“My mother gave me this,” the woman said softly. “She told me never to open it at night. I never knew why. But last week, I did. And I saw—I saw a room. A fire. A child screaming.” She looked at Mira with haunted eyes. “I can’t unsee it. Please. Take it.” Miras - Nora Roberts

It wasn’t vanity. She was, by most accounts, easy to look at—honey-colored hair that curled at the ends, eyes the deep green of a stormy sea, a smattering of freckles across a nose that turned up just slightly. No, the hate went deeper. It was the knowing she hated. Then he stopped in front of the back room

“I believe in what I can’t see,” he said simply. “I believe in wood grain and the memory of trees. Why not mirrors?” “She told me never to open it at night

She ran. She never told anyone. But she knew.

Mira looked from his face to the locket, then to the rain-streaked window behind him. In the glass, just for an instant, she saw a reflection that wasn’t hers. A woman in a green dress, standing in a doorway, one hand pressed to her heart. And she was smiling.