The Mirror Wrote Back

Lena couldn’t quite figure out what had jolted her awake—the soft tapping on the window or the annoying buzz of her old laptop rebooting for no apparent reason.

But when she turned her gaze to the full-length mirror across her bedroom, she caught sight of something:

“Chapter One ends here.”

The words were faint, as if someone had traced them with a fingertip in the condensation—but the mirror was completely dry.

She blinked, and just like that, it was gone.

Probably just a dream, she reassured herself.

By morning, it was a distant memory.

Lena was a novelist—or at least she was trying to be. She had moved to the countryside seeking focus, solitude, and a better handle on her deadlines.

Her publisher was breathing down her neck for a new thriller. The only hitch?

She hadn’t managed to write a single decent page in weeks.

On the second night, another message appeared:

“She never saw it coming.”

That line wasn’t hers. But it was brilliant—clever and chilling. Exactly the kind of phrase she’d want for her killer's first move.

She quickly jotted it down in her notes.

By the fifth night, the mirror was gifting her entire paragraphs.

Descriptions. Dialogue. Plot twists she hadn’t even considered—but somehow felt like they belonged to her.

She dove back into writing. Feverishly. The words flowed out of her. And her book… it was good. Better than anything she’d ever crafted before.

But with the story came shadows.

Shadows that shifted when she wasn’t paying attention.

A dark smudge appeared in her reflection’s eyes. It grew larger each night.

Her dreams began to blur with scenes from the book—until she couldn’t tell if she was imagining the story or recalling it.

Then came the message that sent chills down her spine:

“Don’t write the ending.”

She stood frozen, heart racing. Behind her, the reflection started to…smile.

Not her smile.

Its own.

That night, she deleted the last chapter.

The next morning, she found her laptop on, the manuscript open, the final paragraph typed out flawlessly.

She hadn’t written it.

The killer’s name was hers.

The last line read:

“She always wrote her own death.”

And when she looked up, her reflection was grinning back at her.