The first time Elara saw the mirror, it was in a dusty antique shop tucked between two abandoned storefronts. The shopkeeper, a woman with silver hair and eyes like polished obsidian, didn’t speak much. She only nodded when Elara asked about the mirror, which sat on a pedestal in the corner, wrapped in a thick cloth. When Elara pulled the fabric away, she felt a strange chill run through her fingers, as if the air itself had changed. The mirror was old—wooden frame carved with symbols she couldn’t recognize, glass that seemed to shimmer even in the dim light. It wasn’t just reflective; it looked like it held something behind it, something waiting. The shopkeeper finally said, “It’s not for everyone. Some see nothing. Others… they never come back.” Elara bought it anyway. She placed it in her apartment, above the fireplace, where it caught the morning light. At first, there was nothing unusual. But one evening, as she sat by the fire, she noticed the reflection of her room behind her, but something was off. The shadows moved differently. Her own reflection blinked before she did. She tried to ignore it, but the next day, she found a small note on her desk, written in her own handwriting: *Don’t look into the mirror after sunset.* She had no memory of writing it. The words were faded, as if they had been there for days. Curiosity overpowered fear. That night, she stood before the mirror, the room lit only by the flickering flame of a single candle. The glass darkened, and for a moment, she saw another version of herself standing in front of a different mirror, in a different room. The other Elara smiled, then turned and walked away. The reflection vanished. Over the following weeks, Elara began to notice more. A door she had never seen opened in her hallway. A voice calling her name from the other side of the room, though she was alone. She started seeing people who weren’t there—strangers watching her from the edges of her vision, their faces blurred, as if they belonged to another world. One night, she decided to test the mirror again. This time, she stepped closer, until her face was inches from the glass. The surface rippled like water, and for a brief second, she saw a city bathed in violet light, buildings stretching impossibly high, streets filled with people wearing clothes that didn’t exist in her world. Then, a figure emerged from the reflection—herself, but older, with eyes that held centuries of knowledge. The figure raised a hand, and the mirror shattered. Elara woke up on the floor, the mirror now a pile of jagged shards. She cleaned them up, but the next morning, the mirror was back, whole and untouched. The shopkeeper hadn’t returned, and the shop had vanished, replaced by a blank wall. She stopped using the mirror, but the signs continued. She would find objects in places they shouldn’t be—her keys in the fridge, her books stacked in the bathroom. One morning, she found a photograph of herself standing in front of the mirror, smiling, but she had never taken it. Then came the dream. In it, she stood in a vast, empty corridor, the walls made of shifting colors. A door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar. She walked toward it, and when she opened it, she found herself in her apartment—but everything was reversed. The furniture was on the opposite walls, the mirror was gone, and in its place was a large, wooden door. As she reached for it, the door creaked open, revealing a dark room filled with mirrors, each reflecting a different version of her life. She woke up gasping, drenched in sweat. The mirror was still there, waiting. And this time, she knew what it was trying to show her. But as she stared into it, the reflection didn’t match her. It was someone else. Someone who had already seen everything.