The Girl Who Wasn't in the Photograph

The girl behind the golden door looked exactly like Iris.
Same dark curls. Same hazel eyes. Even the tiny scar near her left eyebrow.
But there was something different about her expression. She looked at Iris with the familiarity of someone who had known her for years.
"Who are you?" Iris whispered.
The girl glanced at the photograph in her hands.
"That's a complicated question. Especially when your own family has spent years pretending I don't exist."
Iris stepped closer. "Why do you look like me?"
"Because you were never supposed to look like me. I was supposed to look like you."
Behind Iris, Pip dropped his lantern.
"Oh, brilliant," he muttered. "Another family secret. We really should start charging admission."
Her brother didn't laugh. He was staring at the girl as though he had seen a ghost from a forgotten dream.
"Evelyn," he said softly.
The girl's expression changed.
"You remember me?"
He hesitated. "I remember someone telling me never to speak your name."
Iris turned towards him. "You knew about her?"
"Not exactly," he replied. "I was little. I remember a room, a music box, and a girl who used to call me her little brother."
Evelyn smiled sadly. "You used to follow me everywhere."
She opened the photograph and pointed to a small figure standing beside their parents. The figure's face was blurred, as if someone had rubbed it away.
That was me," she said. "Before someone took my story."
Iris looked down at the glowing book in her hands. Its pages were turning by themselves.
A new sentence appeared.
TWO SISTERS. ONE STORY. ONLY ONE REMEMBERS.
"Wait," Iris said. "If you're Evelyn, then who am I?"
Evelyn looked straight into her eyes.
"You're the version of me they created when they tried to erase my memories."
The Archive suddenly trembled. Books flew from their shelves, and the golden door began closing.
Pip grabbed Iris's sleeve. "We need to leave. Now!"
But Iris couldn't move.
Because Evelyn had just said something that made everything worse.
"Your parents didn't steal my story, Iris. They hid it."
"From whom?"
Evelyn reached into her pocket and pulled out a small silver key.
"From the person who wrote both of us."
Somewhere deep inside the Archive, a typewriter began tapping.
And on a blank page, a new name appeared.
IRIS BENNETT.
Then, beneath it, another line:
THE AUTHOR IS STILL WATCHING.
To be continued...