The Mirror’s Diary

When Daniel first moved into the old boarding house on Lockridge Street, the only thing the landlady insisted he keep was the antique mirror fixed to the bedroom wall.

“It’s been here longer than I have,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It belongs to the room.”

Daniel didn’t argue. He was too tired to care — a failed relationship, an unfinished book, and the kind of loneliness that hums in your bones. The mirror was tall and oval, its silver frame tarnished with age. It leaned slightly forward, as if eager to look at him.

The first night, Daniel barely noticed anything strange. But the second night, when he brushed his teeth and looked into the glass, he saw his reflection smile a second too late. A small, delayed twitch of the mouth that didn’t belong to him.

He froze, toothpaste foaming in his mouth. The mirror Daniel blinked — once, twice — perfectly synchronized now, as if nothing had happened.

He laughed it off. “You’re tired,” he muttered. “Just tired.”

Days turned into weeks. Daniel’s book — The Anatomy of Guilt — sat unfinished. The mirror became an unwanted companion, watching him write, eat, sleep. Sometimes, he’d catch its reflection flicker, as though the light behind it had shifted. Once, he swore he saw movement inside the glass — a shadow turning its head just before he did.

He started avoiding eye contact. But every morning, habit betrayed him. The mirror always waited.

One evening, after too much wine, Daniel stared at himself for a long time.

“Who are you really?” he whispered.

The reflection didn’t move. Then — the corners of its mouth curved upward. Slowly.

Daniel stepped back, his breath caught in his throat. His own face remained still, but the mirrored version was smiling.

Then, words appeared — faint, fogged letters forming on the surface, as though written from the inside.

“You don’t remember, do you?”

Daniel stumbled backward, knocking over a lamp. The glass cleared. The message was gone.

Sleep became a luxury. He started hearing faint scratching sounds at night, like fingernails tapping behind the wall — behind the mirror. He tried covering it with a blanket, but each morning it had slipped off, folded neatly at the foot of his bed.

He called the landlady one afternoon. “Has anyone ever complained about that mirror before?” he asked.

There was silence. Then a soft exhale.

“You shouldn’t speak to it,” she said finally. “That’s how it learns your name.”

The line went dead.

That night, Daniel dreamt of the mirror. In the dream, he stood before it, watching his reflection peel its skin like old wallpaper. Beneath was a pale, eyeless version of himself — smiling wider and wider until the mouth split at the edges.

He woke to find his pillow damp with blood. There was a small cut at the corner of his lip, shaped like the beginning of a smile.

The mirror, fogged with condensation, now bore words again:

“Almost there.”

He tried to move out the next morning, but when he opened the bedroom door, the hallway beyond was gone. Only his reflection stood in the doorway, staring back from an endless version of the same room.

Daniel screamed, throwing a chair into the mirror — it shattered into a hundred silver pieces. He collapsed to the floor, gasping.

But when he looked up, the wall was whole again. The mirror was unbroken.

Only now, his reflection was gone.

The glass showed his room, yes — the bed, the lamp, the desk — but no Daniel. It was as if the world inside had stopped recognizing him.

Then, from the other side, something began writing again.

“Your turn.”

For three days, the neighbors heard noises — tapping, muffled cries, and finally silence. When the landlady entered the room, Daniel was gone. The mirror stood gleaming, spotless, reflecting an empty, peaceful room.

A week later, a new tenant moved in — a young woman named Lila.

She noticed the mirror immediately. It was beautiful, old, maybe valuable. When she smiled into it, her reflection smiled back.

Almost.