The Mirror in Room 214

The Mirror in Room 214
By Tariq Shah

I checked into the hotel to escape my life.

My phone was on 4% battery, my inbox had over 400 unread emails, and my smile had become something I only wore in meetings. Burnout wasn’t a concept anymore—it was a feeling I carried in my spine.

The woman at the front desk smiled at me, unaware of the storm under my skin. “One night?”

I nodded. “Yes. Any quiet room will do.”

She typed on her keyboard, clicked a few times, then handed me a keycard. “Room 214. It’s one of our calmest.”

The hotel wasn’t fancy. Faded wallpaper, soft jazz playing in the background, and an elevator that creaked like it carried secrets.

When I entered Room 214, I was struck by how ordinary it looked—plain bed, beige curtains, a desk with a flickering lamp. But something caught my eye: a tall, antique mirror against the wall.

It didn’t belong.

It wasn’t part of the hotel’s modern, budget décor. It had a thick, ornate frame with carvings of vines and small stars. Dust danced in the light around it, as if the mirror had its own gravity.

I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and stood in front of it.

But what I saw in the mirror wasn’t what I expected.

It was me—but not quite.

In the reflection, my face looked rested, my posture taller. My eyes had a light in them that had disappeared years ago. I was... me, but somehow better. Not richer, not younger—just freer.

I blinked. The real me looked worn out. My reflection didn’t.

I stepped closer. The mirror didn’t just reflect me—it reflected the version of me I used to want to become.

A painter’s apron hung over my shoulder in the mirror. My hands had smudges of color. I was smiling—not the forced smile I’d perfected, but a real one.

A knock at the door broke the spell.

Room service, even though I hadn’t ordered anything. A tray with tea and a note.

> “The mirror only shows what you’ve buried. The rest is up to you.”
– 214



I looked down the hallway. No one.

Back inside, I sipped the tea and stared again.

That night, I didn’t scroll my phone. I didn’t check my email. I sat on the edge of the bed, watching myself in the mirror. Watching the version of me that once wrote poems and painted until 3 AM. The one who dreamed before deadlines stole my nights.

Tears welled up—not because I was sad, but because I had forgotten who I used to be.

When I woke up, the mirror was still there. But this time, the reflection showed me holding a paintbrush.

I hadn’t painted in over eight years.

When I checked out, I asked the receptionist, “Has Room 214 always had that mirror?”

She looked puzzled. “Room 214 doesn’t have a mirror.”

I paused. “It did last night.”

She glanced at the screen. “That room’s been closed for maintenance for two weeks.”

I laughed. “I stayed there.”

She frowned. “Sir… we gave you Room 314.”

She turned her monitor toward me—and she was right. My name was next to Room 314. And when I checked the keycard again, it said the same.

And yet… I had definitely entered Room 214.

As I walked out of the hotel, I felt different. Lighter.

That weekend, I found my old sketchbook buried in a storage box. The pages were stiff, yellowed—but waiting. I went to the art supply store and bought a new set of paints. When the clerk asked if I was an artist, I smiled and said, “I used to be. I think I still am.”

Now, every evening after work, I paint.

Not for money. Not for likes. Just to remember the person in the mirror—the one I forgot, but never really lost.

And sometimes, just before sleep, I wonder if Room 214 ever really existed.

Or if it was just the version of myself I finally allowed to come home.


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Author Note:
Sometimes, we don’t need a new life—we just need to remember who we were before the world told us to be someone else. Room 214 might not be real, but its lesson is: you are still inside there, waiting to be seen again.