The Mirror That Breathes Back
On the edge of winter, an inherited attic clock ticks in a circle of dust while a tall mirror leans against the far wall. Its glass is flawless, its frame a tangle of carved ivy that seems to twitch when you blink. The first breath of the room fogs the surface, not from your mouth but from the glass itself, a pale mist that kisses your knuckles. When you wipe it away, you admit the unthinkable: a second room exists beyond the surface, a world that pulses with a quiet, patient life.
At night, the mirror does more than repeat your silhouette. It shifts your reflection into someone else’s attire, shelves of impossibly delicate objects arranging themselves behind the glass, a street that never ages. It notices your breath, matches it, slows it, then returns with a nod as if acknowledging an old friend. The world inside begins to answer in the language of sighs and tremors; you hear the glass breathe in unison with you, a rhythm that makes the attic feel almost crowded with quiet visitors.
We are not a window, little observer. We are a door you can forget to close. If you listen, the other world will listen back. And if you listen long enough, it will learn your name.
The mirror’s whispers become errands, its surface a ledger of delicate obligations. It shows you moments that aren’t yet yours—an alley glinting with frost, a lamp glowing with an unspent sun, a child who tilts their head and smiles as if recognizing you from a dream. Each vision pulls at the edge of your daily life, a thread that unravels just enough to make you doubt the fabric of reality. And with every breath you take in that silent room, the world beyond the glass grows louder, as if the other side has learned to murmur in your own language.
- Listen with more care than you blink; small truths hide in the cadence of your own breathing.
- Return before the breath within the glass grows heavier than your own—before dawn wears you away.
- Do not speak of what you saw to the waking world; stories shorten doors and close windows.
- Trade a memory for a moment of sight, and tread back with something you cannot put on a shelf.
One evening, the world inside the mirror begins to press against the skin of your own room—raindrops that smell of copper, footsteps that arrive before the door opens, a streetlight that pours through the wallpaper. You feel the urge to step closer, to cross the boundary and greet the breath you’ve heard for so long. You do not cross. Yet the moment you decide to seal the glass with your own breath, you glimpse a future where this room is no longer yours—the attic vacant except for a pale echo of your own last exhale.
When you finally choose to leave the mirror’s gaze entirely, you discover the reflection has already chosen a line of return. The room seems flatter, the air thinner, and the clock’s tick feels like a heartbeat you once shared with a stranger on the other side. The mirror remains, breathing softly, a quiet invitation that reminds you: some doors never truly close—only drift into the spaces we carry with us, forever recomposed by the breath of a world that learned our name.