I didn't intend to find it.
Not that night.
I was just chasing a sound.
Something metallic.
Dragging.
Coming from above my ceiling.
I assumed rats.
Maybe a raccoon.
But when I climbed the attic ladder, I found something else entirely.
A wall that shouldn't exist.
It stood at the end of the crawlspace, smooth and seamless—no bricks, no plaster, just flat concrete painted black.
But cold to the touch.
Colder than stone.
Colder than logic.
In the center: a door without hinges.
Round handle.
Same spiral sigil from the contract scroll.
I pulled.
The wall creaked.
Not like a door opening.
More like a throat clearing.
Beyond it was… my apartment.
Same couch.
Same wallpaper.
Same coffee stain on the rug.
Except the colors were faded.
Off.
Like it had been photocopied too many times.
And everything was mirrored—left and right reversed.
Even the air smelled wrong.
No scent of dust or mold.
Just… absence.
Then I saw myself.
Sitting on the couch.
Head tilted forward.
Hands clasped.
Eyes staring directly at me.
But he didn't react.
Didn't move.
He just watched.
Like he'd been waiting.
I stepped forward.
He stayed still.
Then I noticed his eyes were hollow.
Not gouged out.
Just… vacant.
As if someone had rewritten the memory of vision.
I spoke:"Who are you?"
He blinked once.
Then said:
"You could've been me."
"I never signed."
"But they rewrote me anyway."
I looked down.
In his lap was a copy of the contract.
Still rolled.
Still sealed.
But burned around the edges.
Untouched.
Unopened.
But still leaking ink.
I took a closer look around.
Everything was still.
Dead still.
The windows didn't show the outside.
Just static.
Like an old TV screen frozen on a dead channel.
The mirror above the sink reflected nothing.
Even though I stood in front of it.
Then mirror-Elias stood.
Slower than gravity.
Every joint moved like it was remembering how to bend.
He pointed to the bedroom.
I hesitated.
But walked in.
The bedroom was identical.
Except for the photos on the wall.
Where mine held empty frames, his had pictures.
Not of family.
Not of places.
But events.
Moments I hadn't lived—but remembered dreaming.
My own funeral, attended by no one.
A contract signing under water.
A version of me splitting into shadow and skin.
He spoke again, voice dry as parchment:
"They built this copy to store choices you never made."
"Each tenant has one."
"A backup."
"A warning."
I turned around.
He was gone.
But on the bed was a mirror.
Oval.
Old.
Framed in dark wood, cracked down the center.
Etched across the glass:
"This is what you almost were."
I picked it up.
Looked in.
Saw myself.
But he blinked first.
Not in sync.
Not my reflection.
Behind me, the other Elias reappeared.
But now he looked different.
Younger.
Stronger.
His eyes glowed faintly with contract ink.
He opened his mouth—and my voice came out:
"Go now.Before this version chooses for you."
The mirror went black.
And behind me, the apartment shifted.
The walls stretched, like they were exhaling.
The door back to the attic began to close.
I ran.
Dove through it.
Landed hard in the crawlspace.
Turned to shut the black door—
It was gone.
Back in my real apartment, the lights flickered.
Twice.
Once long.
Same rhythm as the ones in the stairwell.
I checked the contract scroll.
A new line had appeared:
"Mirror Apartment Accessed: Yes"
"Causality Status: Unstable"
"Probability Split: Pending."
Whatever that place was, it had recorded me.
Copied me.
Or maybe, it already had.
And I'd just seen what part of me escaped.
That night, I dreamed of both apartments—intersecting.
Flickering back and forth like pages being flipped.
And in the dream, I stood between them, holding a pen.
One version of the contract had already been signed.
The other still waited.
And I had to choose which one burned.
When I woke up, I found the mirror from the other apartment leaning against my wall.
I hadn't brought it back.
I don't know how it got here.
But now, when I look into it, I no longer see myself.
Only him.
Watching.
Still waiting.
For what—I'm afraid to ask.