The Mirror Draft

Ethan Ward was a literature professor at Hillcrest University — a quiet man who loved solitude more than social events. His students called him “The Ghost Teacher” because of how silently he moved through the halls. He wasn’t rude — just lost in thought, like someone living between two worlds.

For the past few months, Ethan had been struggling to finish his new novel, The Mirror Draft. It was meant to be his masterpiece — a story about a writer who finds a mysterious book that writes itself. But every time he sat down to work, his laptop screen flickered, words rearranged themselves, and lines appeared that he swore he hadn’t typed.

He laughed it off at first, thinking it was fatigue. But soon, the words started making too much sense — describing his daily life, his thoughts, even the clothes he wore that morning.

One line made him freeze:

“The writer wears a blue shirt today, though he doesn’t remember owning one.”

He looked down.

He was wearing a blue shirt — one he didn’t remember buying.

That night, Ethan stayed late at the university library. Only one wing of the building was still open — the east hall, where the old archives were kept. He sat by a window, rain tapping softly against the glass, and tried to type.

The cursor blinked like a pulse.

Suddenly, new words appeared on the screen, one letter at a time:

“You left the story unfinished. We’ve been waiting.”

His hands trembled. He pulled the power cord, but the laptop stayed on. The cursor moved again.

“Look behind you.”

He turned instantly. Nothing — just shelves, papers, and his own reflection in the glass window.

But his reflection was still typing.

Ethan stumbled back, nearly falling off his chair. The reflection stared at him — same face, same clothes — except for the eyes. The eyes in the reflection were smiling.

He whispered, “Who are you?”

The reflection mouthed the words he hadn’t spoken aloud: “You know who I am.”

The next morning, Ethan avoided mirrors. He kept his curtains closed and stopped shaving. He even covered the glass screen of his laptop with paper when not using it. But the whispering never stopped.

Sometimes, in class, he would catch glimpses — a flicker of movement in the polished door, the shimmer of his reflection blinking half a second too late.

One afternoon, a student named Lena stayed behind after class. “Professor, are you okay? You’ve been... different lately.”

Ethan smiled weakly. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

She nodded but hesitated. “I was in the archives last night. I saw someone in there — looked just like you, but… older.”

He froze. “What?”

She shrugged nervously. “I thought it was you, but he disappeared when I called out.”

That evening, Ethan went back to the archives. The rain had returned, drumming against the tall windows. He turned on his flashlight and walked between the shelves.

There — at the end of the aisle — sat another laptop. Old, dusty, but open. The same model as his. On its screen, the title glowed faintly: The Mirror Draft.

He approached slowly. The last line read:

“He comes to finish what he began.”

And below that, words started appearing again — even though he hadn’t touched the keyboard:

“Welcome back, Ethan. You never left.”

He whispered, trembling, “What are you?”

The reply appeared instantly:

“I am the writer who finished the story when you stopped.”

“But I am you.”

Ethan backed away. His flashlight flickered and went out. The screen’s glow was the only light left. He could see his reflection again, faint but clear — only this time, the reflection moved first.

It leaned closer to the glass and whispered, though the sound came from inside his mind:

“You’re not real, Ethan. You were written to remember me.”

For days, Ethan’s world began to crumble. His lectures stopped making sense. He found chapters of The Mirror Draft printed and left in his office, though he didn’t print them. Each one was signed at the bottom:

— The Original.

He tried to destroy them. He burned the papers in his sink, but the words still appeared the next morning — carved faintly into his mirror.

He avoided everyone, terrified of reflections, terrified of waking dreams that felt like memories.

Until one night, Lena came knocking on his apartment door.

“Professor, you need to see this,” she said, holding an old yearbook from the university archives.

She flipped it open to a photo from 1999.

There, among the faculty, was a young man who looked exactly like Ethan — same face, same name: Professor Ethan Ward.

He stared, his throat dry. “That’s impossible.”

Lena whispered, “This was twenty-five years ago.”

She pointed at the note beneath the photo: Professor Ethan Ward — literature instructor, died 1999.

Ethan laughed — a weak, broken sound. “That’s a mistake. I’m right here.”

But Lena looked at him sadly. “I don’t think you are.”

In that moment, the world seemed to bend. The apartment flickered like an old film. He turned toward the window — his reflection stared back, smiling gently now.

The reflection whispered, “You wrote yourself into my story. You never stopped writing, Ethan — you just changed sides.”

The glass rippled like water. Ethan reached toward it. The surface felt warm.

And then — he was gone.

When the university opened his apartment later, it was empty. No sign of struggle. Only a single sheet of paper left on the desk.

It read:

“The story has finally remembered its author.”

And beneath it, faintly scratched into the wood:

— The Mirror Draft