The first time Elara saw the mirror, she was twelve years old and had just moved into the old house on the edge of town. It stood alone at the end of a winding path, its windows dark and silent. The realtor had called it “quaint,” but Elara felt something else—something watching her from behind the glass. She didn’t notice the mirror at first. It was tucked behind a heavy velvet curtain in the attic, half-hidden beneath dust and forgotten trinkets. When she pulled the curtain aside, the mirror seemed to shimmer, as if the air around it were thick with static. She reached out, fingers brushing the cold surface, and for a moment, the world around her blurred. In the reflection, she saw not herself, but a girl with her same face, standing in a room that looked exactly like the one she was in—but different. The furniture was older, the walls darker, and the girl in the mirror smiled at her with a knowing look. Elara gasped and stumbled back, the mirror returning to normal. That night, she couldn’t sleep. The mirror haunted her dreams, showing glimpses of another life. A boy with silver eyes who whispered secrets in a language she almost understood. A garden that bloomed with flowers that changed color with the moon. And always, the feeling that someone was waiting for her on the other side. Over the years, Elara became obsessed. She spent hours in the attic, studying the mirror, trying to find a pattern. Sometimes, when she stared long enough, the reflection would shift. She would see people walking through the mirror, their faces familiar yet strange. A woman who looked like her mother, but with eyes that held too much sorrow. A man who wore her father’s clothes, but his voice was wrong. One evening, she found a journal hidden in the floorboards beneath the mirror. The pages were yellowed, the ink faded, but the words were clear: *“I found the door. I have seen the other side. They are not what they seem.”* The name at the bottom was her own. Elara’s heart pounded. She flipped through more pages, each one filled with descriptions of the other world—its beauty, its danger, its whispers that followed you even when you weren’t looking. The writer spoke of a place where time flowed differently, where memories could be traded, and where the line between self and shadow grew thin. She began to experiment. She would stand before the mirror for hours, whispering her thoughts, hoping to reach the other side. One day, she noticed a faint glow around the edges of the frame. Another time, she heard her own voice calling from the other side, though she hadn’t spoken. Then came the day the mirror showed her something new. A door. Not just any door, but a tall, wooden one with a brass handle, standing in the middle of a dark hallway. She watched as a figure approached it, their hand hovering over the handle. It was her. Or maybe not. The figure turned, and for the first time, the reflection didn’t match her. That night, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. What if the mirror wasn’t just a portal? What if it was a test? A way to see which version of herself was worthy of crossing? She tried again, this time reaching out with both hands, pressing her palms against the glass. The world around her dissolved into light, and she felt herself being pulled forward. When she opened her eyes, she was no longer in the attic. The hallway was cold, the air thick with the scent of old wood and something else—something metallic, like blood. The door stood before her, slightly ajar. She stepped closer, her breath shallow. The handle was warm to the touch, and as she gripped it, a voice whispered in her ear. *“You are not the first. You will not be the last.”* Before she could turn, the mirror behind her flickered. She saw herself, still in the attic, staring at the empty space where the mirror had been. Her reflection was frozen, eyes wide with fear. The door creaked open. And she didn’t know if she was stepping into another world—or back into the one she had left.