Time lost meaning in the ward. Days blurred together, nights stretched too long. Ty marked time not by clocks but by the shifts in his reflection.
The staff thought they were clever. They dosed him with pills, strapped him down during his "episodes." They spoke of him like he wasn't there—"Patient exhibits psychotic tendencies…signs of delusion....signs of dissociation…"
Ty laughed at them. But inside, he began to feel something he'd never felt before.
Weakness.
It was in the way his fists shook after an outburst. The way his chest ached after screaming. The way the fire inside guttered too quickly.
And then came the reflection.
One night, after hours of staring at the ceiling, Ty looked toward the mirror. His face stared back—but softer somehow. His eyes looked tired, not cruel. His mouth trembled, not smirked.
He blinked. The image snapped back to normal as if it was never there to begin with.
But he knew what he'd seen.
Something was living in the glass, or was it in him?