Through the Mirror, She Waits.

The mirror in the attic had always been wrong.

Not broken—its surface was perfectly smooth, unmarred by cracks or age. It wasn’t dusty, despite the years. It didn’t even reflect the light quite right. Sometimes, it made things appear a second slower, like a video buffering on bad Wi-Fi. But no one paid much attention to the attic. Except me.

I first saw her when I was eight.

We’d moved into the old estate house after my grandfather died. My parents were busy with unpacking and grief, and I was just... curious. I found the attic on a rainy afternoon, drawn by the creak of a door that hadn’t been open in years. It smelled like mothballs and forgotten stories.

And there, in the far corner, stood the mirror.

It wasn’t just a mirror—it was a tall, arched thing in a brass frame, ancient and imposing, resting against the wall like it had grown from the house itself. And in it, I saw... her.

She looked like me. Same hair, same eyes, same little scar on the chin I got when I fell off my bike. But it wasn’t me. She moved when I didn’t. Tilted her head the wrong way. Smiled when I frowned.

And when I turned to run, she waved.


---

Years passed. I learned to ignore the attic. Grew out of my imagination, or tried to. But sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of her reflection in a dark window or the bathroom mirror when the lights flickered.

She never aged. I did.

At sixteen, I returned to the attic again. I don’t know why. Maybe I was angry. Maybe I wanted to prove she was just a dream. But when I faced the mirror, she was waiting.

She pressed her hand to the glass. I followed. And for the briefest second, our hands touched. Not glass to glass—but skin to skin. And then she whispered something I’ve never forgotten:

“You’re the one who left.”


---

It started to unravel after that. My dreams grew heavy, filled with static and fog. I’d see her walking through my school halls in my clothes. I’d hear my name spoken in my own voice, when I hadn’t spoken. I started to wonder if I was the reflection—or if she was.

When I told my parents, they called it stress. Anxiety. “Creative overdrive,” my mother said. They took away the attic key. But she still found me in the mirrors.

On my nineteenth birthday, I found a note taped to my bedroom mirror. Five words. Written in my handwriting:

“You don’t belong out there.”


---

I write this now because I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be here. This morning, I looked in the mirror, and I wasn’t there. She was.

She was brushing her hair, humming the lullaby my mom used to sing. She looked... real. Solid. And I felt—thin. Paperlike. Like a drawing someone had forgotten to shade in.

She looked at me, calm and certain, and said, “It’s your turn now.”

And I understood.

I wasn’t the original. I never was. She was the one who had been trapped. Somehow, years ago—maybe that first time at eight—I had taken her place. Or stolen it.

And now, she waits no longer.

Because I do.


---

Through the mirror, she waits.

Where time stands still. Where smiles don’t reach the eyes. Where everything is almost, almost, almost real.

If you ever find a mirror that seems a little too quiet, that reflects a version of you who lingers too long after you've turned away—don’t touch it.

Don’t speak to her.

Because she’s always waiting.
And the mirror remembers.
Even if you don’t.