The first time Elara saw the mirror, she thought it was just an old antique in the attic of her grandmother’s house. It had been there for as long as she could remember, covered in dust and cobwebs, its silver frame dulled by time. She had never paid much attention to it—until the day she found a photograph tucked behind the glass. The photo showed a woman standing in front of the same mirror, but something was off. The woman looked exactly like Elara, yet her eyes were different—darker, more intense. When Elara touched the mirror, the reflection moved before she did. She gasped, stepping back, only to see the reflection smile at her. Over the next few days, strange things began to happen. The mirror would show glimpses of other rooms that didn’t exist in the house. A hallway with doors that led nowhere, a garden that bloomed in winter, a clock that ticked backward. Elara started to notice small changes in her own world: her books rearranged themselves on the shelves, her keys appeared in places they hadn’t been, and once, she saw a shadow moving behind her when no one was there. She began to research the mirror, digging through old family records and forgotten journals. One entry mentioned a “door between worlds,” written in a shaky hand and dated over a century ago. The writer spoke of a place called “Eclipsa,” where time bent and reality shifted. The mirror, it seemed, was not just a reflection—it was a gateway. One night, Elara stood before the mirror again, heart pounding. She reached out, fingers brushing the cool surface. The room around her faded, and for a moment, she was somewhere else. The air smelled different—earthy, metallic, like rain on stone. She turned and saw herself standing in front of the mirror, but this version of her wore a different outfit, her hair shorter, her face more worn. “Who are you?” Elara whispered. The reflection tilted its head. “I’m what you could be,” it said, voice echoing oddly, as if coming from another room. “But you’re not ready to know.” Elara blinked, and the world snapped back. She was back in the attic, the mirror now dull and unremarkable. But something had changed. The photograph was gone, and the journal entries she had read no longer made sense. She couldn’t remember reading them in the first place. Days passed, and the mirror remained silent. Then, one morning, Elara woke to find her hands stained with ink. On her desk lay a letter, written in her own handwriting: “I’ve seen the other side. I don’t know if I’m still here or not. If you’re reading this, I hope you understand. Don’t look too closely. Don’t follow too far. Some doors should stay closed.” She stared at the letter, heart racing. Her own signature was at the bottom. But she had never written it. That night, the mirror flickered again. This time, it showed a city lit by violet light, where the sky pulsed like a heartbeat. In the distance, a figure stood watching her. Elara reached out, but the reflection pulled away, vanishing into the dark. She stepped back, breath shallow. The mirror was waiting. And somewhere, in another version of herself, the same thing was happening. Was she still in this world, or had she already crossed over? And if she had, how many more mirrors were out there, each holding a different version of who she might have been? The mirror never stopped calling.