I Sold My Reflection for a Wish

The Shop That Wasn’t There Yesterday

It wasn’t there the day before.

On Thursday morning, as I walked to work past the old textile mill on Gable Street—a route I’d taken every morning for the past six years—I noticed a small shop tucked between two boarded-up buildings. A crooked sign above the door read:

"Madame Isadora’s Curiosities & Collectibles — Wishes Considered."

It should’ve been ridiculous. But something about it called to me.

I walked in.

The bell over the door sounded like a violin string snapping.

Inside: dust, velvet, and the smell of forgotten time. Trinkets hung from the ceiling like glass fruit. Shelves sagged with antiques—porcelain dolls, rusted wind-up birds, cracked snow globes.

And in the center of it all, a mirror.

Six feet tall.

Silver frame twisted like tree branches frozen in mid-twirl.

And the glass… not reflective exactly. More like water. Murky. Moving.

Madame Isadora appeared without sound.

She was thin and severe, with gray eyes that glinted like razors. Her voice was silk over glass shards.

“You're here for a wish.”

I opened my mouth to say no, but something else came out.

“Yes.”

She stood in front of the mirror, her shadow flickering like candlelight.

“The Mirror of Mora does not lie,” she said. “It gives exactly what is asked. But it always takes what it is shown.”

“What does that mean?”

She didn’t answer. Just gestured.

“Step forward.”

I stood in front of it. My heart thudded in my ears. My reflection looked back—me, in my worn coat, tired eyes, life in neutral.

And I thought about what I wanted most.

Success.

I was a writer. Or trying to be. Eight years of rejection emails, failed pitches, and unpaid gigs. My confidence was threadbare. I wanted one shot—just one real chance to be heard.

“You must speak it aloud,” Isadora said. “A wish only counts if it is confessed.”

I hesitated. The mirror pulsed. The glass rippled like breath on water.

“I want my book to be published,” I whispered. “I want to be recognized. Seen.”

“Done.”

She clapped her hands once. The air shimmered like heat over asphalt.

Then she added:

“Payment accepted.”

The mirror darkened. My reflection disappeared.

I didn’t notice it at first.

I left the shop light-headed, unsure if I’d imagined the whole thing. But when I passed a bakery window, I glanced in—and saw nothing. No reflection.

At home, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror.

Blank.

No me.

I ran a hand across the glass. It wasn’t broken. The world reflected—the tiles, the lightbulb behind me, the towel rack. But where I should be, there was… nothing.

Not a blur. Not distortion.

Nothing.

The email came three days later.

An editor from Paragon House. He’d read the manuscript I submitted six months ago. He loved it. Said he wanted to publish immediately. National rollout. Six-figure advance. Film rights conversation already brewing.

The next month was a blur of contracts, flights to New York, interviews, book signings. I was on podcasts. My book—“The Deepest Part of the River”—hit #2 on the Times list within six weeks.

Everyone saw me.

Everyone except me.

No reflection. Not in mirrors, glass, car windows. Not in photos, either. People could see me, but I couldn’t see myself.

I thought it was psychological. I saw a neurologist. A psychologist. A spiritual healer. They all found nothing wrong. But at 2 a.m., staring into a mirror that stared back with emptiness, I knew.

I had sold my reflection.

Then came the other things.

At night, when I brushed my teeth, I’d feel something watching from the mirror.

Not me—something else.

Sometimes the glass would fog from the inside. Words would appear, just for a second, too fast to read.

My bathroom door once slammed shut on its own at 2:37 a.m.

In a hotel suite, I found a handprint inside the mirror. A child’s. It didn’t match mine.

The worst was during a book signing in Chicago.

I was alone in the greenroom, fixing my hair. I looked into the dressing mirror—force of habit—and for a single, breathless moment, I saw something.

A woman.

Not me.

She wore my clothes, had my posture. But her face was blank—no eyes, no mouth. Just smooth, stretched skin like wax melted wrong.

She smiled.

I returned to Gable Street. The shop was gone.

Not closed—gone.

No address. No record. No building between the two boarded-up shells.

I hired a private investigator. He found nothing. No “Madame Isadora” in the county records. No known antique shops with that name anywhere in the state.

I became obsessed.

Started collecting antique mirrors. Spent hours in front of them, watching. Listening. Sometimes I’d hear whispers behind the glass. Sometimes laughter.

One night, I asked out loud:

“What do you want from me?”

And the mirror answered.

“To come through.”

I became paranoid.

I stopped using mirrors. My assistant carried one for me during events. I wore sunglasses all the time. I stopped sleeping in rooms with reflective surfaces.

But the dreams got worse.

I’d wake up to find messages scrawled on my walls in condensation:

“Let me in.”

“I want to see the world.”

“We share the same face.”

I understood something awful:

The reflection I lost didn’t disappear. It stayed behind. And now it wanted out.

Desperate, I found a medium. A real one, I think. Her name was Karima. She lived in a basement apartment and spoke in three languages while lighting black candles.

She listened to my story. Didn’t flinch.

“Mirrors are thin places,” she said. “And what you gave up wasn’t just an image. It was a tether. A soul-fingerprint. A way to track you across worlds.”

“How do I get it back?”

She looked at me, eyes sad.

“You can’t. Not without giving up what you wished for. You cannot be seen in both worlds.”

“So what do I do?”

She hesitated.

“Seal every mirror. Every one. Or she’ll step through.”

It wasn’t enough.

The sealing spell held for two months. Then came the night of the storm.

Power out. Candles flickering. Wind howling like something alive.

At 2:42 a.m., my bedroom mirror cracked on its own. Not shattered—split, as if something inside was pushing out.

I saw her again. My reflection.

Only this time, she had eyes. My eyes.

She lifted a finger, pressed it to the glass. On my side, the air grew cold.

“You had your wish,” she whispered. “Now it’s mine.”

And she stepped out.

I don’t know how it happened.

One moment, I was there.

The next—I wasn’t.

She took my place.

She lives in my house now. Gives interviews. Wears my face. Writes books with my name.

But I watch from the other side.

From inside the mirror.

She visits sometimes. Looks in. Smiles.

“You wanted to be seen,” she says. “Now you watch.”

I scream. No one hears.

I hit the glass. It doesn’t shake.

I am the reflection now.

And the mirror is hungry.