I spend all morning sifting through my mother's belongings, sorting through the fragments of a life I barely understood. Most of its junk that's been packed away in closets—old newspapers articles, unopened mail, receipts folded so many times the ink has worn away. I have no idea why she held onto it.

A small wooden box is shoved into the back of her bedroom closet, the hinges on it rusted and stiff. Inside, I expect to find something meaningful—jewelry, personal letters, sentimental keepsakes from her past. Instead, it's filled with broken mirror shards. They're wrapped in tissues stained with what appears to be old blood.

My stomach turns as I close the lid.

I try not to think about it, and focus on the rest of the house. The smell of dust and stale air clings to everything inside. As I move through the hallway, memories creep into my head like unwelcome guests.

When I was a small child, my mother would always hover over me, watching, waiting—for what, I never knew. Back then, she covered our mirrors with blankets and sheets, whatever she could get her hands on. Once, she even screamed at me for looking at my reflection for too long in the bathroom.

I don't remember much about moving into this house, just flashbacks that don't quite fit together. Rushing from our apartment in the middle of the night. Mom wrapping me in a scratchy blanket and letting me sleep in the backseat. We didn't take anything with us. No suitcases, or boxes. None of my toys. It was just me and Mom, and the tires of our ancient Honda squealing as we tore out of the parking lot. Her strained voice telling me not to look back.

After that, we moved from apartment to apartment until she saved up enough money to buy this house. I recall the smell of fresh paint as we unpacked our things, and moving into Mom's bedroom even though there was an empty one down the hall. To me, the house was strange—too big for just the two of us. Filled with too many dark corners that liked to swallow all the sound.

I also remember the night, about six months after we moved in, that I ended up at Birdie's house. I must have been ten at the time, and I'd woken to the sound of my mother screaming. When I crept out of bed, I found her in the hallway, her fingers bloody as they tore at the edges of the mirror, trying to yank it off the wall.

It was the only mirror she'd allowed and now she was taking it away. I didn't understand why. My friends all had mirrors. In their bathrooms, in their bedrooms. Over the mantles of their fireplace. Why couldn't we have just this one? When I yelled for her to let it go and begged her to stop acting crazy, she turned on me, wild-eyed, shaking me so hard my teeth clacked together. "She's always watching!" she wailed, her nails digging into my arms.

I ran. Out the front door, through the dark, and to the house next door. The one with green shutters and an overgrown garden. The Mason's took me in without question, letting me curl up on their couch while Birdie called my mother on the phone. They made me chicken noodle soup and let me stay up late to watch cartoons.

"She doesn't mean it," I told them as my shaky hands spooned warm broth into my mouth. "She just doesn't like mirrors."

Birdie stared at me for a long time. "Fear makes people do strange things," she'd finally said.

At the time, I didn't know what she meant.

When Joe Mason walked me back home in the morning, Mom pretended like nothing had ever happened. She made pancakes, humming in the kitchen, her voice still hoarse from her episode the night before. The mirror in the hallway remained, but it was taped up with newspaper, the glass hidden away underneath.

Now, standing in my mother's living room, that same sense of dread closes in.

I stare at the antique mirror. The wood is deep, almost black, with swirling patterns and elaborate carvings, yet delicate, like veins beneath pale skin. At first glance, I don't see my reflection in the glass, just a distorted version of the room behind me. So, I move closer, and something else catches my eye, something I hadn't noticed in the murky light of the attic.

Scratches. Deep, jagged gouges running across the cloudy surface. It's not a trick of the light—the marks are real, yet smooth beneath my fingertips, like they're on the inside. I peek behind the frame, but the backside is in perfect condition.

My pulse stutters.

If the scratches aren't on the outer surface... then whatever made them had to be inside. Right? Because who would sell a mirror that's so obviously flawed?

They're not random scratches either. It's a pattern. A desperate, scraping repetition like something tried to claw its way out.

Annoyed, I shake my head.

Being here, in this house, is getting to me. Making me paranoid like my mother. I don't like it.

There has to be another explanation. The glass was probably damaged at some point, and the owner repaired it as best they could. Or maybe it was oxidation. Trapped moisture. Stress fractures from repeated temperature changes. All plausible rationales.

So why can't I let it go?

A knock at the door wrenches me from my thoughts. My heart stumbles as I turn, forcing a breath into my lungs. Birdie's on the porch with a sealed container in her hands, watching me through the screen door.

"I figured you wouldn't have much in the fridge," she says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "How're you holdin' up, darlin'?"

I make myself smile as I accept her offering. "I'm okay. Just... going through some of her things."

"It's a hard place to come back to, I imagine."

I nod, my throat tight. "It feels weird being here without her."

"I'm sure it does. After Joe died, everything felt so empty. Nothing ever filled it in quite the same way," she says with a soft voice. "Houses are like that. They carry the weight of the past long after the owners are gone. It's like the rooms are haunted by their absence."

She glances past me into the living room and her face lights up with shock. "Where in the world did you get that?"

I peel open the container and breathe in a warm waft of banana bread. "It must have belonged to someone who used to live here. I found it in the attic."

"The attic?" Her voice is surprised.

"Yeah. I don't remember seeing it before."

Birdie steps past me and runs her hand over the frame, taking it in. When she's finished, she looks over her shoulder. "Your mother hated mirrors, you know."

The words tighten my stomach. "I know. She used to cover them up. I'm not sure how this one got past her."

"It is odd. She was always so throughout," she says. "Ever since your little friend."

A chunk of bread pauses halfway to my mouth. "What friend?"

"You know..." Birdie turns back to her reflection and tucks a piece of silver hair behind her ear. "The girl in the mirror."

I blink, confused. "I'm not sure what you mean."

She swivels around to face me. "Your imaginary friend. You don't remember?"

A cold weight settles in the pit of my stomach. I can't answer, so I shake my head.

"You were a toddler when your mom first noticed. You'd spend hours in front of the bathroom mirror, playing and talking and carrying on. She thought it was harmless at first. Until—"

Birdie's phone buzzes from her back pocket. She pulls it out, her eyes moving over a text.

The room thickens, the tension stealing all the air. My hands tremble as I wait for her to finish.

"Oh, I can't see a damn thing without my readers!" she says with a laugh. She reaches for a pair of glasses hooked over the collar of her shirt and slides them onto her nose before looking back at the screen.

As the seconds stretch on, my gaze jumps back and forth between her face and the phone, my breaths growing increasingly shallow and quick. "Birdie?"

She doesn't answer.

I need to know what she was about to say! "Birdie?" I repeat more insistently.

Finally, she looks up with a blank expression, like she's a million miles away.

I try to sound normal. "What were you saying about my friend? Mom thought it was harmless until when?"

Her eyes widen. "Oh, yes! She thought it was all in good fun until one day, I think she said you were around three-years-old—or was it four?" Her gaze flicks towards the ceiling as she thinks.

Tension tightens my shoulders. "Birdie—my age doesn't matter. Can you please just tell me what happened?"

Birdie tucks her phone back into her pocket and removes her glasses. "She said you were playing in front of the mirror and you were talking to yourself—or, at least, she thought you were. But then she swore she heard another voice. She snuck closer for a better look, and she saw your reflection talking back to you."

Knots twist my stomach. "My mother heard two voices in the bathroom?"

Birdie nods. "That's what she said. But that wasn't the worst of it."

I try to be patient. Not let my desperation rip through the calm I'm attempting to maintain. "What was the worst part?"

Birdie turns back to the mirror and pushes her fingers through her hair. "She said she watched you smile and your reflection smiled back, but it wasn't the same. It stretched across its face unnaturally. In a way that wasn't..." Her voice trails off.

I'm holding my breath. "Wasn't what?"

Birdie's eyes meet mine in the mirror. "In a way that wasn't human."

The words hit me like ice water.

A memory unspools in my mind—me, as a small child, standing in front of the mirror, laughing. My reflection leaning in, its lips parting as it whispers something I can't remember.

When I blink, the memory is gone.

Birdie's still watching me, waiting. "Do you remember anything like that?"

I don't answer. I can't.

I just stare at the scratches in the glass.

🪞

Approximate chapter word count: 1760
Approximate total word count: 3600