The first time Elara saw the mirror, it was in a secondhand shop tucked between a bakery and a shuttered bookstore. The shop had no sign, just a chipped wooden door that creaked when she pushed it open. Inside, dust motes swirled in the pale light, and the air smelled of old paper and something faintly metallic. She wasn’t looking for anything specific—just wandering, as she often did on rainy afternoons. Behind the counter sat an elderly man with eyes like polished obsidian. He didn’t speak as she examined the wares, but when her fingers brushed against a small, ornate mirror framed in silver and ivy, he finally said, “That one’s been waiting for you.” Elara hesitated. The mirror was unlike any she had seen before. Its frame was etched with symbols that seemed to shift when she looked away, and the glass itself had a slight shimmer, as if it were not entirely solid. She bought it without asking questions, paying with coins that felt heavier than they should have. Back in her apartment, she placed the mirror on her desk. It was too large for the space, but she couldn’t bring herself to move it. At first, nothing happened. But then, late one night, she noticed something strange. When she stood in front of the mirror, her reflection didn’t always match her movements. Sometimes it would lag slightly, or tilt its head in a way that wasn’t quite right. She tried to dismiss it as fatigue, but the feeling lingered. One evening, as she stared into the glass, she caught a glimpse of a figure behind her. Turning quickly, there was nothing there. But the mirror showed her a shadowy version of herself, standing just a few feet behind. When she turned back, the reflection was normal again. Curiosity overtook caution. She began experimenting. She would stand in front of the mirror and whisper things—questions, secrets, half-formed thoughts. Sometimes, the reflection would answer. Not with words, but with expressions, subtle shifts in posture, as if it understood more than it should. One night, she asked, “What is this place?” The reflection blinked slowly, then stepped forward. The mirror’s surface rippled, and suddenly, Elara was no longer in her room. She stood in a corridor of flickering lights and endless doors. The air was thick with the scent of rain and decay. A voice echoed from somewhere unseen: *You are not where you think you are.* She spun around, but the corridor stretched in all directions, each door slightly different from the last. Some were cracked open, revealing glimpses of rooms that shouldn’t exist—rooms filled with clocks that ticked backward, or staircases leading nowhere. The mirror behind her had vanished, replaced by a single, narrow door marked with the same symbols as the frame of the mirror she had bought. She reached out, and the door opened. Inside was a room exactly like her own, except everything was reversed. Her desk was on the opposite wall, the furniture slightly off-kilter, as if someone had rearranged it with care. And there, sitting at her desk, was another Elara. This one wore a different outfit, and her eyes were darker, more knowing. “You found your way,” the other Elara said, smiling. “But why now?” “I don’t know,” Elara whispered. “I just… needed to see.” The other woman tilted her head. “You’re not the first. But you might be the last.” A chill ran down Elara’s spine. “Last? What do you mean?” Before the other could answer, the room began to blur. The walls pulsed like a heartbeat, and the floor trembled. The mirror reappeared behind her, its surface rippling again. She turned, and the door closed behind her. She was back in her apartment, the mirror now resting on the desk as if nothing had happened. But something was different. The room felt smaller, the air heavier. She glanced at the mirror, and for the first time, her reflection didn’t look back. She never saw the other Elara again. But sometimes, when she looked into the mirror, she felt a presence watching from the other side. Not malevolent, not cruel—but waiting. Watching. Waiting for her to return.