The Mirror Between Worlds

The mirror had been in her grandmother’s attic for as long as she could remember. Tall, framed in dark mahogany carved with symbols she couldn’t name, and draped most of the time in an old sheet. Her grandmother used to warn her not to touch it.

“It doesn’t show what you want,” she used to whisper, “only what you need.”

At ten years old, Amira thought that was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. A mirror was just glass. It reflected what was in front of it—nothing more, nothing less.

Years passed. Her grandmother died. The house stood empty for two winters before Amira returned to sort through what was left. A few neighbors had offered to help, but she refused. She didn’t want anyone else touching the memories that made her childhood feel real.

On the third day of sorting boxes and dust-covered furniture, she found the mirror again.

Uncovered, it was even more beautiful than she remembered—and more haunting. The frame seemed darker now, almost black, and the carvings shimmered faintly in the attic light. She stared into it, half-expecting to see herself as she was—tired, older, wrapped in an old sweater, dust on her cheeks.

But what she saw instead made her take a step back.

The room behind her was the same—but she was different.

In the reflection, she stood straighter. Her hair was loose instead of tied back. Her eyes... they burned. Not with anger or sadness—but with presence. Confidence. A kind of wild, knowing light.

Amira blinked. The image remained.

She reached out slowly, her fingers grazing the surface. The glass rippled under her touch, like water disturbed by a single drop.

Suddenly, a voice—her own, but stronger—rang in her ears:

"You buried me, but I never left."

Amira stumbled back, nearly knocking over a box behind her. Her heart pounded in her chest.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

But even as she turned to leave the attic, she knew she would return. Not because she believed in ghosts or magic, but because something inside her had stirred—something she had silenced for too long.

That night, she dreamed of forests. Of a younger version of herself running barefoot through wild meadows, chasing birds and sunlight. The version of herself who once believed she could write novels, travel the world, speak truth without fear.

That version had gone quiet after the accident.

Amira hadn’t told many people about the night her brother died. She was driving. He was laughing beside her, singing along to a song they both loved. Then the light turned red. She looked down for half a second.

Half a second.

That was all it took.

She had survived. He hadn’t.

The guilt crushed her. And with it, everything that made her who she was.

She stopped writing. Stopped laughing. Stopped believing in dreams.

That version of herself—the bold, vibrant one—had been buried deep beneath layers of guilt, responsibility, and fear.

But now, that version stood in the mirror, watching her. Waiting.

The next day, Amira returned to the attic. The mirror waited, silent and still. She sat before it, cross-legged like a child, and stared.

"I'm not here to haunt you," the voice said again—not aloud, but inside her.

"I am you. The part you locked away because it hurt too much to remember what it felt like to live fully."

Tears welled in her eyes.

“I don’t deserve to be her again,” Amira whispered. “Not after everything.”

The reflection didn’t flinch. It didn’t look away. It simply extended a hand—her hand—and smiled.

“You don’t have to become her. Just stop pretending she’s gone.”

It took days before Amira could bring herself to speak back. Weeks before she could look in the mirror without shame. But with each visit, the weight she carried lightened.

She began to write again. Small things at first. Memories. Thoughts. Dreams. But the words came. And they didn’t stop.

She began to walk through the forest trails near her grandmother’s home, the same paths she had wandered as a child. The silence no longer terrified her. In fact, it helped her hear more clearly.

Her own voice.

The one she had silenced under layers of what-ifs and never-agains.

The mirror never changed, and yet she did. Every day.

Eventually, she stopped seeing the reflection as separate. The woman in the glass became... herself.

Not the broken Amira. Not the perfect one either. Just whole. Honest. Alive.

On her final day in the house, Amira climbed the attic stairs one last time. The mirror stood where it always had. She ran her fingers along the edge of the frame, no longer afraid.

She didn't need it anymore—not as a window. Because the voice within had found its way back out.

As she pulled the cover over the mirror, she whispered a thank-you. Not to her grandmother. Not to the mirror.

But to the version of herself who waited all those years, never giving up.