Through the Broken Mirror

When Mira’s grandmother died, the house was left to her—a weathered old place on the edge of town, overgrown and half-forgotten. The kind of place people whispered about but never visited. Mira didn’t remember much from her childhood summers there—only vague images: an attic full of books, the scent of lavender, and an old mirror in the hallway that always gave her chills.

She hadn’t seen that mirror in over fifteen years.

Now twenty-seven, Mira returned not out of nostalgia but necessity. Her apartment lease had ended, and she needed somewhere—anywhere—to stay. Even a crumbling house full of ghosts and dust.

The first few days were quiet. She fixed the plumbing, cleaned what she could, and avoided the attic. But on the fifth night, the power went out. With only a flashlight in hand, she found herself wandering the halls by instinct—and there it was.

The mirror.

Cracked down the center. Covered in grime. Taller than her. Its ornate frame still bore the carvings she used to trace with curious fingers—stars, roses, and spirals. She wiped away a patch of dust and looked into it.

Only she wasn’t there.

Someone else was.

Mira froze.

The girl in the mirror looked like her. But her eyes were darker, and her clothes were not Mira’s. She wore a pale dress—vintage, lacy, soaked at the hem. Her lips moved slowly.

At first, Mira thought it was a trick of the light. But the girl’s mouth kept moving, silently, rhythmically, as if chanting something.

Suddenly, the air grew heavy. The flashlight flickered.

Then the girl raised her hand and pointed—down the hallway, toward the attic.

Mira ran.

She didn’t sleep that night. Or the next. But curiosity has a way of digging under fear. On the third night, she returned.

This time, the mirror girl was waiting.

Her lips moved again, more urgently.

Mira whispered aloud, “What do you want?”

The girl turned, her eyes wide with something like sorrow. She placed a hand against the mirror’s surface—and once more, pointed upstairs.

Mira followed.

The attic was colder than the rest of the house, as if sealed away from time. Dust coated everything. Old dolls stared from corners. Boxes of photos, letters, and lace filled every shelf.

In the far corner, beneath a moth-eaten quilt, she found a small wooden chest. Inside: a diary.

Its first page read:

Annabelle. Summer, 1912.

They think I’m mad, but the mirror shows the truth.

She watches me from the other side. I think she’s me, but not.

I think she’s from the future. I think she’s real.

Mira read for hours.

Annabelle had lived here, more than a century ago. She was nineteen. Curious, clever, misunderstood. She wrote about the mirror—how it sometimes showed things it shouldn’t. Other worlds. Other lives. And someone who looked just like her.

As Mira flipped the final page, a photograph slipped out.

It was a black-and-white image of Annabelle. Standing beside the same mirror. Wearing the same pale dress.

And behind her—in the mirror’s reflection—was someone unmistakable.

Mira.

Her.

**

She stood before the mirror again that night.

“I saw it,” she whispered. “I know who you are.”

The girl nodded.

“I’m not just seeing you,” Mira said. “You’re seeing me too.”

This time, Annabelle smiled.

And the mirror cracked again—just a hairline. Just enough.

Mira reached out.

So did the girl.

Their fingers met at the surface.

The house shook.

**

When Mira woke, she wasn’t on the floor.

She was in the attic.

But not her attic.

Everything was restored. The wood gleamed. The air smelled like lavender.

She ran to the hallway.

The mirror was whole again. But it no longer reflected her—it showed a girl in jeans and a flashlight. Confused. Scared.

The new girl.

She was on the other side.

Mira realized, slowly, what had happened.

She was no longer in her own time.

She was in 1912.

Annabelle had traded places.

But oddly, Mira didn’t panic.

As the days passed, she began to write in the diary.

She wore vintage clothes, tended to the garden, and discovered that the old mirror didn’t show anyone else anymore—only her.

Somewhere, maybe, Annabelle was navigating the future. Perhaps she’d find peace there. Perhaps she’d return one day.

But for now, Mira watched the mirror every night.

And waited.