The Other World Reflected
In the quiet hall, the antique mirror hung between two cracked sconces, as if it were a gatekeeper rather than a glass. When the house slept, the surface rippled with a stubborn, almost impatient stillness, like a heartbeat under unspoken skin. I learned to listen for that tremor, because it announced the night when another world pressed close enough to touch me with air I could almost taste.
The Glass Boundary
Night after night, I pressed my palm to the cool surface, feeling the chill travel up my wrist and settle in my bones. On the other side, the air carried rain on iron and bells that seemed to toll without sound. The world beyond the glass looked nearly the same—same dresser, same coat, same freckles on my left hand—but everything else was altered: street signs etched with unfamiliar runes, the sky a deeper indigo that never knew dawn, and people who wore smiles that drifted a fraction too slow.
“If you listen too closely, you won’t hear yourself anymore,” the reflected me whispered, lips barely moving, a warning wrapped in a half-smile.
I learned to watch the fog on the glass, how it formed a map of steps, a path to slip through without shattering the fragile peace that kept both worlds from drowning in each other’s shadows.
The Rules of the Gate
- The portal opens only when the house hums at midnight and the glass fogs with unfamiliar symbols.
- Your reflection does not guide you back; it leads you onward, with promises you barely understand.
- The other world demands a return for every departure—time, memory, or a name you once forgot you owned.
- A glance away does not erase what you have witnessed; it merely rearranges it into a dream you wake within.
The mirror began rearranging the room in slow, deliberate motions, as if the other world pressed closer and pressed again. Furniture shifted by itself; a chair tilted just enough to reveal a seam of silver where the glass thinned. Each night the distance between the two rooms shortened, until the surface was nothing more than a thread of mist, a line you could step over if you dared.
“If you want to leave, you must learn the language of reflections,” my other self whispered, not offering a choice but a dare that tasted of rain and iron.
Final Reflection
On the edge of decision, the house grew quiet as if listening for the breath between worlds. I stood before the mirror and saw two versions of myself: the one who remained and the one who stepped through. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass and listened to the other world breathe in reverse, counting the quiet heartbeats of a life that might have been mine. The choice was not to vanish but to become a guest, to borrow a night and return with a rumor—of bells that never quite arrived and rain that kept its own careful time.