Reflections for Sale

They told stories about the mirror in the attic.

Old stories. Stories nobody believed anymore.

It was said to be haunted, cursed, or enchanted—depending on who you asked. Most people in the village of Eldershade didn't ask anymore.

But Marin did.

She was fifteen and motherless, quiet as a shadow, with too much time and too many thoughts. Her father, after the accident, hadn’t been quite right. He spoke in riddles, sometimes not at all. Her life had grown small. A loop of chores, loneliness, and silence.

So, one evening, when the storm had cut the power and the house groaned with wind, Marin climbed to the attic with a candle.

And she found it.

The mirror.

It was taller than she expected, with a frame carved in spirals and unfamiliar symbols. The surface didn’t reflect properly. Not exactly. It showed her, yes—but differently. She looked younger. Or older. Or sadder. Or maybe more alive.

She leaned close.

And the mirror whispered.

“Would you trade a memory?”

Marin jerked back, heart pounding.

“Who said that?”

“I did,” the mirror replied. Its voice was soft, genderless, echoing only inside her head.

“Why?” she whispered.

“Because I am made of memories. And I am hungry.”

She fled the attic that night.

But the next day, when her father forgot her name again—called her “Eliza,” her mother’s name—Marin returned.

“What happens if I give you one?” she asked.

“You will forget it. But I will hold it. You may visit it again—through me.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Only if you let go of something you love.”

The first trade was small.

A memory of her first scraped knee, aged six. She gave it freely.

And the mirror shimmered, satisfied.

In exchange, it showed her a vision: her mother’s voice singing in the kitchen, flour in her hair, sun spilling in through the windows. A memory she’d forgotten—or never knew she had.

The next night, Marin returned.

Then the next.

Then every night after.

She traded sadness first—memories that made her cry.

Her mother’s funeral.

The first time her father didn’t come home on time.

The moment she realized the other girls didn’t want to be her friends.

Each one faded from her mind like smoke after a fire.

And each time, the mirror gave her something else:

A story.

A scene.

A feeling.

Like dreams pulled from someone else’s life—but more beautiful, somehow.

She grew lighter.

Freer.

Her friends noticed. The teacher praised her writing. Her smile returned.

And still, she returned to the mirror.

Until one night, it asked:

“Will you give me your happiest memory?”

She paused.

“What would I get?”

“A secret.”

“What kind?”

“A powerful one. A truth that no one else knows.”

She hesitated.

Then she remembered the way her mother’s arms felt when she carried her on her hip, barefoot in the garden, humming something soft.

She gave it away.

In exchange, the mirror told her:

“Your mother didn’t die by accident.”

Marin’s heart stopped.

The mirror showed her a vision—not a memory, not hers.

A letter, never mailed.

A man’s hand on a steering wheel, shaking.

A whisper: “She knew too much.”

Her father.

Her broken, silent father.

She screamed. Threw the candle. The attic caught fire.

The mirror cracked—but didn’t break.

In the smoke, she fled.

Weeks passed. The attic was sealed. Her father was questioned. The mirror remained untouched, silent.

But Marin had changed.

She had no memories of sorrow. No memories of joy.

Only the aching in-between.

She missed her mother but couldn’t remember why.

She feared her father but didn’t know when it began.

And still, in dreams, the mirror called to her.

Come back. You have more to give.

One night, she did.

She stood before the fractured glass.

“What’s left?” she asked.

“Only yourself.”

She nodded.

“I’ll keep that.”

She turned, and this time, she walked away.

With nothing left to trade.

And everything still to remember.