The Mirror-Market

I used to think regret was something you outgrew. Like shoes you wore too long or a habit you finally got tired of carrying. But regret doesn’t soften with time. It just learns to speak quieter. And some evenings, when the world feels too still, it speaks loud enough that you can’t pretend you don’t hear it.

That’s how I found the Mirror-Market.

I was walking home after a long day, the kind of day that makes you wonder if your life is unfolding or simply repeating. The sun was slipping behind the rooftops, staining the sky a reddish gold. I cut through an alley I’d never noticed before, though I’ve lived in the same part of the city for years. It opened into a courtyard filled with dim blue lanterns, glowing as if they’d been waiting for me.

Stalls stretched in every direction, each draped in fabrics older than memory. But there were no spices, no trinkets, no vendors calling out prices. Only mirrors. Dozens of them. Hundreds maybe. In frames chipped by time, or polished so clean they seemed new.

An old man sat on a stool near the entrance. He didn’t ask what I wanted. He simply nodded once, as if he already knew.

I stepped toward the first mirror, expecting my own tired reflection. But the face staring back wasn’t mine. Or rather, it wasn’t the me standing there.

It was the version of me who’d taken the job in another city years ago, the offer I turned down because I was scared of starting over. In this reflection, I looked sharper, confident. My clothes were nicer. My smile broader. But there was a loneliness in the eyes, subtle but certain, like someone who hadn’t called home in too long.

I moved to the next mirror.

This one showed the me who never quit music. The me who kept going after that failed audition. I watched myself on the other side of the glass singing into a microphone, a small crowd gathered, their faces soft with admiration. I could almost hear the sound of it. But then I saw the hands of that other me—scarred, strained, tired. A person holding on too tightly to a dream that didn’t always hold back.

I walked to mirror after mirror, unable to stop. There was the me who chose to stay in a relationship that hurt. The me who left too soon. The me who traveled the world. The me who never left home. The me who took risks I was too afraid to consider. The me who avoided every risk and became someone I barely recognized.

Each version stared back with something I didn’t expect: curiosity.

As if they were wondering what my life looked like. As if they were asking whether their choices had been better, worse, or simply different.

When I reached the final mirror, the largest in the whole market, I braced myself. I didn’t know which version of me I’d see next. The successful one? The heartbroken one? The reckless one?

But this mirror was empty.

Blank glass. No reflection. Not even of the version standing there.

I stepped closer, touching the cool surface with my fingers. It rippled slightly, like a still pond disturbed. The old man appeared beside me, silent as a shadow.

“This one shows the path you haven’t chosen yet,” he said.

I swallowed. “Why doesn’t it show anything?”

He gave a small smile. “Because you haven’t decided who you’re going to be. That part is still yours.”

When I looked back at the mirror, I realized the emptiness didn’t feel frightening. It felt freeing.

I had spent so long imagining the lives I could have lived that I forgot I still had one life left to shape. Mine. Imperfect, uneven, unglamorous at times. But real. Present. Still unfolding.

The lanterns dimmed suddenly. The courtyard shuddered like a breath being released. The old man gestured toward the alley.

“Twilight has passed. The market must leave.”

I stepped out, and behind me, the entire bazaar vanished in a wash of blue light. The alley looked ordinary again, like it never held anything magical at all.

But as I walked home, I felt lighter. My regrets were still there, but quieter. Not because the mirrors had erased them—because they reminded me that every path carries its own weight, its own lessons, its own bruised beauty.

And the life I’m living now is the only one I get to continue rewriting.