The Mirror in the Attic

The box of my grandmother's belongings sat unopened in my living room for nearly a month after the funeral. I couldn't bring myself to sort through her things, each item a reminder that she was truly gone. But as April rain tapped against my windows, I finally found the courage.

"Just get it over with," I muttered to myself, slicing through the packing tape.

Inside lay the modest treasures of a woman who had lived nearly a century: photo albums, handwritten recipe cards, a few pieces of costume jewelry. At the bottom, wrapped in a faded quilt, was something unexpected—a tarnished hand mirror with an ornate silver handle.

I remembered it from childhood visits to her house. She'd kept it on her vanity, though I'd never seen her use it. When I asked about it once, she'd quickly changed the subject.

The mirror was beautiful despite its neglected state. I carried it to the bathroom, dampened a cloth, and began wiping away decades of tarnish and dust. The silver frame revealed delicate engravings of roses and thorns. The glass itself remained cloudy until my final swipe cleared it completely.

That's when I saw her.

Not my reflection, but a woman standing behind me—gray hair in a loose bun, wire-framed glasses, wearing my grandmother's favorite cardigan.

I spun around, heart hammering. The bathroom was empty.

When I turned back, the mirror showed only my pale face, eyes wide with shock.

"Get it together, Emma," I whispered, setting the mirror aside with trembling hands.

That night, I couldn't sleep. The mirror called to me from the bathroom counter. Around 3 AM, I finally gave in and retrieved it, sitting cross-legged on my bed.

"Grandma?" I whispered, feeling ridiculous.

Nothing happened at first. Then the surface rippled like disturbed water. My grandmother's face appeared, younger than I'd ever known her, perhaps in her thirties.

"Emma," she said, her voice somehow emanating from the glass. "I've been waiting."

"This isn't possible," I stammered.

She smiled. "Some things run in families. This mirror has been passed down for generations. It's time you knew."

"Knew what?"

"That some of us can speak through the veil. This mirror is a conduit, crafted by your great-great-grandmother. It's meant for guiding, for saying what was left unsaid."

Tears welled in my eyes. "I miss you so much."

"I'm not truly gone," she replied. "There's something I need to tell you—something I never had the courage to say in life."

Over the following hours, my grandmother revealed family secrets, wisdom, and warnings about a future she could somehow perceive from beyond. She told me about abilities that slept in my blood, waiting to be awakened.

As dawn broke, her image began to fade.

"The mirror works when it's needed, not when it's wanted," she explained. "Keep it close. Others will appear when the time is right."

"Will I see you again?" I asked desperately.

Her smile was the last thing to disappear. "When you need me most, dear one."

I moved the mirror to my attic office the next day, creating a special place for it on my desk. Sometimes, when the light hits it just right, I catch glimpses of figures moving within its depths—ancestors I've never met, watching, waiting.

And sometimes, late at night when doubt creeps in, I climb the attic stairs with a cloth in hand. I wipe away the gathering dust, and my grandmother stands behind me once more, ready to guide me through the darkness with wisdom from beyond the veil.

The mirror in the attic is never truly empty. None of us are ever truly alone.