When I Came to My New Home - I Found Myself on the Night of June 22nd Like a Full Moon and a Half Sun

I still remember the moment I turned the key to my new home. It was a strange feeling—excitement and fear woven together like threads in an old tapestry. The house was centuries old, perched on the edge of a quiet forest, with ivy climbing the weathered stone walls and windows that looked out on nothing but shadows. I had bought it in a hurry, desperate for a change after a messy breakup and a job loss. It was supposed to be a fresh start.

But the moment I crossed the threshold, something felt off.

The air was cool, almost too cold for summer, and it smelled of wet dirt and something I couldn’t stand. A weight pressed down on my shoulders as I stepped into each creaking hallway. And then, there was the mirror—a huge antique framed in black wood, hanging alone in the foyer. The moment I laid eyes on it, I froze.

My reflection was wrong.

I saw myself, but my face was glowing in a way I had never seen before—bright, pale, as if I had absorbed the entire night sky. I was shining alone in the darkness like a full moon. At first I thought it was a trick of the light, or maybe fatigue. But every time I passed the mirror, it showed me the same strange, bright version of myself, with eyes that looked deeper than I remembered.

That first night, it was impossible to sleep. The house made sounds—sighs, knocks, a faint murmur like the wind in a hollow bone. I tossed and turned, thoughts of the mirror disturbing me. When dawn broke, I felt no peace. I stepped outside for a breath of fresh air and for a moment I saw something strange.

The morning sun was rising, but it was only half-way up. Its upper part was blindingly bright, but the lower part looked dim and shadowy, as if someone had dipped it in ink. I checked my phone’s calendar—it was June 22, the day after the summer solstice, when the sun should be powerful and golden. But this sun was sick, somehow incomplete.

My chest tightened. The mirror inside, the broken sun outside—they were connected, I was sure. But how?

I spent the whole day searching for the house, trying to distract myself. Each room felt more unfamiliar than the last. Old photographs of strangers lined the walls, their faces scratched away, leaving only empty ovals where their eyes and mouths should have been. A faded note on the curtain read, “We only see what we want to be.”

The words chilled me.

As darkness fell, the mirror demanded my attention once more. Compelled by a force I couldn’t explain, I stood before it. My reflection still shone like a full moon, almost painfully bright against the gloom of the hall. I reached out and touched the glass, half hoping it would burn me. But it was cold, icy cold, and a shiver ran through my entire body.

Suddenly, I wasn’t looking at my reflection anymore—I was looking at myself at home, walking down hallways I hadn’t yet entered, talking to people I didn’t know. In the mirror I was smiling at them, but there was something wrong with the smile. It was wide, too wide, stretching beyond anything.

I tore my hand away, my heart was pounding. My skin was flat, and my mind was telling me to let go, to run away, but I couldn’t. Something in this place wanted me here, needed me here.

The next morning, I woke up as if from a fever. My body felt light, but my head was filled with a strange buzz. I went outside to look at the sun again. The same: half-shining, half-dead, as if it refused to fully rise. There was still June 22.

But it couldn’t happen.

I checked the calendar again. June 22. Checked my phone. June 22. No matter what I did, the date wouldn’t change. Time had stopped. I was living the same broken sunrise, trapped in the same strange house, staring into the same cursed mirror.

I needed answers.

On the third night—or the third June 22nd, I wasn’t sure anymore—I forced myself to go deeper. I waited until midnight, then stood in front of the mirror again. This time, I spoke to it.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

The mirror flashed, and then my voice answered, but not from my lips—from the glass itself.

“You are the night that fell before the world was born,” she whispered, as if the snow was breaking. “You are the moon that lights up the darkness, but never sees the day. You are the sun, half, until you accept your other half.”

I stumbled back. It made no sense. But then, fragments of memories flooded me—the arguments with my ex, my constant fear of not being enough, my habit of hiding in the dark so no one could see my flaws. I had lived like a half-sun, afraid to burn out completely, and like a full moon, reflecting only other people’s light instead of finding my own.

The mirror was showing me.

In that moment, I realized that the house was not haunted by any passion—it was haunted by my own imperfect self. My fears, my resentments, all shut down until this place forced me to face them.

The next morning—still June 22, but somehow different—I went to the mirror for the last time. I stood tall, breathing slowly, and spoke.

“I am both the moon and the sun,” I said. “I will shine fully, even if I am afraid.”

The mirror did not respond, but I felt something change in the house. The cruel cold had risen. Outside, the sun shone full and gold for the first time, rising like a triumphant promise.

And when I looked in the mirror, my reflection looked exactly as I was—flawless, human, but complete.

That day finally arrived, June 23rd.

And I stepped outside, knowing that I was no longer trapped, but free to begin again—no longer a half-dozen, but completely myself.