She wore the night like blackened grace,
The mirror breathed a sigh upon her face.
The glass grew cold through the airless room,
A scent seeped through cracks, the bride's perfume.
A veil of mist, shrouded in gloom,
She leaned toward roses, poised to bloom.
Each petal curled like a warning spell,
Candles wept slow where the shadows fell.
The figure stood still within the frame,
Locking its gaze, calling her name.
It wore her shape but not her breath,
Mimicking her style, a whisper of death.
She spoke no word, nor blinked her eyes,
Just watched it creep through silent lies.
And just as she went about her way,
The figure emerged, blocking her way.