The Mirror Room

The house felt different after her mother died.

Quiet. Cold. Almost like it was waiting for something.

Sofia had returned to her childhood home after fifteen years. Her mother, Mrs. Evelyn Grace, had passed away only a week ago. She had lived alone in that big, old house ever since Sofia left for the city.

The neighbors always said Evelyn was “odd.” She never went out much, and she kept the upstairs locked — especially one room she called the Mirror Room.

As a child, Sofia wasn’t allowed near it.

Whenever she asked, her mother would say,

“That room keeps our memories safe, Sofia. Don’t ever go inside.”

Now, standing in the empty hallway, Sofia looked up the staircase.

At the end of the corridor, she could see that very door — half open for the first time.

The Room That Was Never Open

Sofia took a deep breath and climbed the stairs.

Dust floated in the sunlight as she stepped closer to the door.

Inside, the room was filled with mirrors — big and small, round and square — covering almost every wall.

In the center stood a wooden chair and a small vanity table.

A soft smell of her mother’s perfume still lingered in the air.

Sofia whispered, “Why did you keep this place locked, Mom?”

As she looked around, she noticed that one mirror — a tall, full-length one — was covered with a black cloth.

She walked toward it slowly and pulled the cloth away.

The mirror was beautiful, its frame made of dark silver.

But as she stared at her reflection, her heart skipped a beat —

The reflection behind her showed her mother’s rocking chair moving, even though the real one in the room was still.

The First Shadow

Sofia froze.

She blinked hard and looked again.

The chair was still now.

“Maybe I’m just tired,” she told herself, forcing a small laugh.

She decided to stay the night. The house needed cleaning, and maybe spending a little time there would help her feel close to her mother again.

But that night, she couldn’t sleep.

At around midnight, she heard faint humming — her mother’s favorite lullaby — coming from upstairs.

Her throat went dry.

She followed the sound up to the Mirror Room.

The door was slightly open.

Inside, the tall mirror glowed faintly, like light was shining from inside it.

Then, she heard it clearly: her mother’s voice whispering,

“Why did you come back, Sofia?”

Sofia’s breath caught. She stepped back and ran to her room, locking the door behind her.

She didn’t sleep at all.

The next morning, sunlight crept across the floor, but Sofia still felt the chill of the night.

She walked through the kitchen, touching familiar things — her mother’s favorite cup, the old radio that still smelled faintly of lavender polish.

Everything in that house seemed to breathe her mother’s presence.

Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was living there too — something that didn’t belong.

While eating breakfast, she noticed a note pinned on the fridge in her mother’s handwriting. It said only:

“If you open the mirror, remember what was lost.”

Sofia stared at the words for a long time.

What did her mother mean?

She began searching through drawers, boxes, and closets — looking for anything that could explain her mother’s strange life.

In one box under the stairs, she found a stack of diaries, tied with a red ribbon. The first page began:

“Clara still talks to me through the glass. She says she misses her sister.”

Sofia frowned. Who’s Clara?

Her heart raced as she turned the pages. There were dozens of entries — all describing conversations her mother had with someone named Clara.

And every entry ended with the same sentence:

“The reflection never lies.”

Old Photographs

Later that afternoon, she found a box of old photos.

In one of them, her mother held two little girls.

One was Sofia.

The other girl looked exactly like her — same eyes, same smile — but Sofia didn’t remember ever having a sister.

She turned the photo over. On the back, in her mother’s handwriting, were the words:

“Sofia and Clara — my two angels.”

Her hands trembled.

Who is Clara? she wondered.

The Truth in the Mirror

That night, she returned to the Mirror Room again. She needed answers.

When she stood in front of the big mirror, she whispered, “Mom… who is Clara?”

The reflection changed.

Now, behind her stood a little girl — about six years old — wearing a white dress and smiling gently.

Sofia gasped.

The girl looked just like her childhood self.

“Clara?” Sofia whispered.

The little girl nodded. “Mom said I had to stay in the mirror. You left, so she needed someone.”

Sofia’s eyes filled with tears. “That’s not possible… You’re me.”

The girl tilted her head. “I was you — until you forgot me.”

The mirror shimmered for a moment, and Sofia suddenly remembered —

The night she fell from the stairs as a child, the sound of glass breaking, her mother’s screams…

Her twin sister had died that night.

But her mother never told anyone.

Instead, she had locked herself away — talking to mirrors, pretending Clara still lived inside them.

Or maybe… Clara never left.

The Final Reflection

Sofia stepped closer. “Clara, if you’re real, come out. We can be together now.”

The girl smiled sadly. “I can’t. Mom said only one of us can stay.”

Before Sofia could respond, the mirror began to shake.

Her reflection blurred — two faces overlapping, hers and Clara’s.

The lights flickered. The glass cracked slightly, and a soft voice whispered from everywhere at once:

“Now you both belong here.”

The room went dark.

The Next Morning

When the neighbor came to check on the house, she found the front door open and no sign of Sofia.

Everything looked normal — except for one thing.

In the Mirror Room, the tall mirror was uncovered.

Inside it, two women stood side by side — one older, one younger — both smiling faintly.

The neighbor said it was just a trick of light.

But every time she cleaned the room, she felt like someone was watching her through the glass.

Willow House was later sold to a new family, but the Mirror Room stayed locked.

Some things, they say, should never be uncovered —

especially reflections that remember too much.