The first time Elara saw the mirror, she thought it was a mistake. It stood alone in the corner of her grandmother’s attic, wrapped in a moth-eaten sheet, as if forgotten by time. The air smelled of dust and old paper, and the light from the single bulb overhead cast long shadows across the wooden floorboards. She had been searching for her great-aunt’s old journals when she stumbled upon it, its frame dark and worn, the glass clouded with age. She pulled the sheet away, revealing a mirror that looked like it belonged to another century. The silvering had peeled in places, leaving streaks of rust along the edges. When she wiped the surface clean with her sleeve, she saw her reflection—but something was off. Her eyes were too wide, her lips slightly parted, as if caught between a whisper and silence. She blinked, and the image returned to normal. She told herself it was just the lighting. But the next day, she noticed the mirror again. It was no longer in the attic. It sat on her desk, untouched, as if it had always been there. The room felt colder, the air heavier. She tried to ignore it, but the reflection kept drawing her in. Sometimes, when she glanced into it, she saw someone else standing behind her, a figure with hollow eyes and a face that didn’t quite belong. She would turn around, and nothing was there. One night, she found a note tucked inside her grandmother’s journal. The handwriting was shaky, the ink faded: “The mirror shows not what is, but what could be.” Beneath it was a diagram—a strange symbol she didn’t recognize, surrounded by lines that seemed to spiral inward. She traced the pattern with her finger, and the mirror suddenly shimmered, like ripples on water. For a moment, she saw a version of herself walking through a hallway lined with doors. Each door opened to a different world—some familiar, others alien. One door had a sign that read “1987,” another “Nowhere.” When she looked back, the mirror was still, but the air around it felt charged, like the moment before a storm. She began to study the symbol more closely, researching it in old books and online. She discovered that it was called the “Threshold Mark,” an ancient sigil used by those who sought to cross between realms. But the more she learned, the more the words began to shift on the page, as if they were alive, rearranging themselves to confuse her. Days passed, and the mirror became an obsession. She started talking to it, asking questions she never dared to voice aloud. “What are you?” she whispered one evening. The reflection flickered, and for the first time, the figure behind her stepped forward. It was her, but older, wearier, with a look of quiet sorrow in her eyes. “You don’t understand,” the reflection said, her voice echoing from somewhere beyond the glass. “Every choice splits the path. You are only seeing one thread.” Elara reached out, her hand trembling, and touched the mirror. A sudden chill ran through her, and the world around her dissolved. She landed in a place that was both familiar and foreign—a version of her own home, but with different furniture, different walls, different memories. She walked through the halls, calling out for someone who wasn’t there. In one room, she found a child sitting at a desk, drawing a picture of a mirror. The child looked up and smiled, then pointed to the wall behind her. There, in the center of the room, was the same mirror. But now, it was open, a doorway leading into another world. Elara turned, but the child was gone. The mirror pulsed, inviting her in. She hesitated, heart pounding, and then stepped through. She arrived in a place where time moved differently. The sky was a deep violet, and the stars pulsed like living things. People walked with their heads tilted, as if listening to something only they could hear. No one noticed her, or if they did, they ignored her. She wandered through streets that twisted in impossible directions, until she came to a library filled with books that changed their pages every time she looked away. In the center of the library stood a figure, cloaked in shadow. “You’ve come far,” it said, its voice like wind through leaves. “But you must choose. Will you stay here, or return to your world?” Elara looked around, realizing that every path led to a different version of herself. Some were happy, some broken, some lost. She had never known she had so many possibilities. The weight of it pressed down on her chest. “I don’t know,” she admitted. The figure nodded. “Then perhaps you should ask yourself—what do you want to become?” The mirror appeared behind her, glowing softly. She turned, and the library faded. She stood in her room again, the mirror now empty, as if it had never been there. But the knowledge remained, a whisper in her mind. She didn’t know if she had truly left, or if she had only stepped into another version of herself. And as she sat in the silence, she wondered—was she still the same person, or had she already become someone else?