Reflections of the Unspoken

A House of Secrets

Dr. Elara Voss was not easily shaken. As a trauma therapist, she had guided countless individuals through their darkest memories—secrets buried deep within their hearts. But there was something about the house on Wyrick Street that unsettled her. Quiet, brooding, and full of mystery, the Victorian estate stood draped in fog and ivy, its walls heavy with forgotten stories.

At the back of the house was a room with a single mirror. The door creaked in protest when she tried to open it. Inside, the air was thick with dust, the faint scent of lavender mixing with the decay of time.

The mirror was enormous—its gilded frame stretching almost from floor to ceiling. Yet, there was something strange about it. It didn’t reflect what was in front of it. Not fully. It showed something else. A different truth.

The First Patient

On her second day at the house, Elara brought in her first patient.

Logan Miles, a decorated war veteran, stood before the mirror. In its reflection, he was younger, crouched in a muddy trench, trembling as bloodied hands covered his face. His eyes widened, and he staggered back.

“I... I never told anyone about that night,” he whispered. “It’s like… it knows.”

Elara observed him carefully. It wasn’t fear that made him shake—it was release. The mirror didn’t just reflect what was—it revealed what had broken them.

The Growing Mystery

Soon, Elara understood the mirror's power. It didn’t just show who people were—it dredged up their deepest wounds, the moments that had shattered their souls. Word spread, and people came to the house on Wyrick Street for healing. The miracle mirror became a secret sensation.

But something darker began to creep into Elara’s own mind.

She started experiencing strange things:

Blackouts.

Disjointed fragments of memories that didn’t belong to her. Or did they?

It began subtly.

She would wake up on the attic floor.

She’d hear whispers of her name, soft and distant, coming from behind the mirror.

And then the dreams started—of a little girl in a white dress, standing alone in a hallway, her back to Elara, her hand pressed to the cold surface of the mirror.

The First Conversation

Elara shared her concerns with her closest friend, Adrian Shaw, a grounded and rational colleague.

“Maybe the mirror is just a tool,” he said, trying to calm her. “Maybe you’re projecting your own fears onto it.”

But Elara wasn’t sure.

“What if it’s projecting into me?” she asked, her voice shaking.

That night, after a particularly draining session, Elara stood alone in the mirror room. The door was locked.

She stared at her reflection.

But the woman in the mirror wasn’t her.

The face was the same, but the eyes—they were darker. Haunted. Knowing.

And then, the reflection smiled.

The Revelation

Elara fainted.

When she woke up, Adrian was sitting beside her, his face full of concern.

“You called me,” he said, his voice trembling. “You mentioned a girl. Anna?”

“Anna?” Elara blinked in confusion. “Who’s Anna?”

Adrian’s face paled. “You don’t remember?”

“No,” she answered, her head pounding.

“You said she died. Here. That the mirror showed you her final moments.”

The name sent chills down her spine.

The Hidden Truth

That night, Elara began searching through the house’s old records. The dusty files filled the air with the scent of forgotten history.

There it was: Anna Whitcombe, 9 years old, disappeared in 1912. Last seen playing near the mirror room.

The next morning, Elara discovered small, delicate handprints on the inside of the mirror. Children’s handprints.

A Mirror of Trauma

The patients kept coming. Each one revealed more of their buried pain:

A woman drowning in her own bathtub.

A man haunted by a burning church and a child he had abandoned.

Elara guided them, helped them, even as her own mind began to unravel.

She tried to stop. She tried to cover the mirror.

But the sheet always slipped off.

And the house—her home—felt heavier with each passing day. The memories felt like they were closing in on her.

The Final Confrontation

One stormy night, the mirror seemed to come alive. The lightning turned its surface to liquid, the room groaning with the weight of forgotten memories.

Elara stepped closer to her reflection. This time, she wasn’t alone. The little girl was there too.

“I remember you,” Elara whispered, her voice shaking.

The girl’s eyes shimmered, and her lips moved in perfect sync with Elara’s. “We are the same.”

“I’m sorry,” Elara said, tears streaming down her face. “I forgot you. I left you here.”

The girl smiled, her reflection finally matching Elara’s own.

And then—the mirror cracked.

It shattered into pieces.

The room fell silent.

After the Storm

The house changed after that night.

No more whispers.

No more blackouts.

Just stillness.

Elara continued her therapy practice, but something was different now. She no longer used the mirror. She didn’t need it anymore. She had learned that healing doesn’t come from external forces—it comes from within.

Where the mirror had once hung, Elara placed a framed photograph. It was a picture of a little girl in a white dress, smiling beside a woman who looked just like her.

Beneath the photograph, a plaque read:

“To those who face themselves—may they never be forgotten.”