Journal Entry: Ghost in the Glass Story

Castle Moran, Ireland — Autumn 1830

Today, the stone of my tower room felt less like a sanctuary and more like the walls of a cage. I pressed my hand against the scrying mirror, a cold echo of the ancient magic that runs in my blood. The gift is said to be a blessing, but lately, it feels only like a burden. The glass showed me futures I did not ask for—visions of withering fields and desperate people , and worse, the beautiful, terrible figures of the Aos Sí, pulling the strings of our world like puppeteers^.

Their voices found me, a disembodied mockery echoing off the stone walls. They saw me for what I felt I was becoming: a mirror for their will, a reflection without substance. "When did you last see your own face, Eleanor of the threshold?" they asked, and when I looked into the glass, my reflection was translucent. A ghost in the glass. It is a profound lack of clarity to feel your own self fading, becoming a mere conduit.

My father found me, and I saw his own fear for me reflected in his eyes. He has served as guardian for thirty years, maintaining a delicate balance⁶. But the Aos Sí are restless, and my gift, as he says, grows stronger. They want more from me than they ever wanted from him⁷. The constant pressure of their ancient conflicts is a form of emotional clutter, one that my ancestors accepted as a quiet obligation.

But I cannot. As I sat in my chamber tonight, pushing food around my plate, I saw their cold fires dancing in the hills, and knew a decision had to be made. I am learning that moving through this with integrity means seeking a path that is not already chosen for me. I wrote in my journal: "There must be another way. There must be a path that leads somewhere other than deeper into their web." 

The weight of my bloodline is a heavy chain, but perhaps chains can be broken. The gift is not mine to keep or reject, but I must find a way to honor my own truth and not just be a reflection of theirs. This is my journey from surviving to thriving, and it begins with the radical possibility of simply not answering the call

This episode in my story, "Ghost in the Glass," is captured in a melody that reflects the haunting beauty of the Otherworld and the quiet strength of a heart determined not to be consumed. You can listen to the song that embodies this journey below.

-Eleanor