In Limbo

“The first time Thomas saw his reflection blink independently, he thought he was dreaming. The second time, it smiled at him.”

He hadn’t slept properly in weeks. Not since the accident. Not since the day his wife, Emily, disappeared without a trace on that rainy London afternoon. No goodbye. No note. No body. Just her umbrella, broken in half and left in the middle of Trafalgar Square.

Now, two months later, Thomas existed in a sort of quiet limbo — neither grieving nor healing, just floating somewhere between madness and meaning. His days were filled with paperwork, detectives, and canned sympathy. His nights? With shadows that whispered and mirrors that moved.

He relocated to a small flat in Edinburgh to get away from everything. Fresh start, people said. But nothing about this new life felt fresh. The flat itself was ancient, filled with warped floorboards and old books left by previous tenants. One of those books — a dusty leather-bound journal — is what started it all.

It wasn’t the journal’s content that unsettled him at first, but its owner: Emily Jenkins.

His wife's name.

Same spelling. Same middle initial.

The journal dated back to the 1950s, and inside were entries that mirrored parts of Emily’s life too closely to be coincidence. “Met Thomas today. He doesn't know it yet, but we are meant to be.” Dated May 17, 1953. The same day Thomas had proposed last year.

At first, he thought it was a prank. Maybe a leftover from a film set. Edinburgh was full of oddities. But then the entries began to change — updating each morning, as if someone were writing them overnight. And each one ended the same way:

“He doesn’t belong here. Not yet.”

The flat’s mirror — a tall Victorian piece bolted into the bedroom wall — began reflecting things that weren’t there. A door that didn’t exist. A flickering light. A version of Thomas that looked... off. More tired. Older. Smiling when he wasn’t.

One night, after a particularly vivid dream of Emily standing at the end of a train platform saying, “You’re not supposed to stay,” he awoke to the sound of footsteps. Inside the mirror.

He approached it slowly. His reflection stayed still, motionless.

Then it blinked. And smiled.

The journal lay open behind him. A new entry had written itself:

“He’s starting to see. The veil is thinning.”

Thomas pressed his hand against the glass. Cold. Then warm. Then... nothing.

The world shifted.

He found himself in a mirror version of his flat. Same layout. Same furniture. But the view from the window? Gone. Just a foggy void. Silence. Until he heard humming. Emily’s humming.

She sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in the same clothes she wore the day she vanished.

“Emily?” he whispered.

“You followed me,” she said, not surprised. “I told you not to. This place—it’s between. Between moments. Between lives. Between choices.”

Tears welled up in his eyes. “Why didn’t you come back?”

“Because I remembered,” she said. “And you’re not ready to.”

“Remember what?”

“That we’ve done this before. Over and over. Every lifetime, the same love, the same tragedy. We always end in limbo. Stuck between going back... and moving forward.”

He reached for her hand, but it passed through like smoke.

“You need to choose, Thomas,” she said softly. “Stay here and forget. Or leave, and remember.”

The next morning, the Edinburgh flat was empty.

No Thomas. No journal. Just a mirror.

And if you stood in front of it long enough, you might see him. Still there. Still deciding.

In limbo.