The last words still pulsed on the cracked glass:
You finally found me.
Aarav's reflection stared back—too still, too sharp.
The room smelled faintly of burnt paper, the same scent that had seeped from the diary. The single bulb above him flickered like it was afraid to stay awake.
He whispered, "Who are you?"
His reflection blinked once, slow. "You already know."
The voice didn't come from his mind—it vibrated through the air, through the floorboards, through his bones. The walls seemed to lean closer.
"This isn't real," Aarav muttered. "It's stress, lack of sleep, that's all."
The reflection smiled—a crooked, knowing curve. "You told yourself the same thing the night she drowned."
Aarav's breath stopped. His chest felt tight, the air heavier. "Stop."
But the reflection's grin widened. "You kept that secret even from yourself. That's why I exist."
He staggered backward. His heel hit the edge of the diary lying open on the floor. The pages fluttered on their own, words rearranging into trembling sentences:
He watches from the glass.
The mirror rippled like water disturbed by breath. Behind the reflection, something moved—someone.
A girl.
Her hair was long, tangled, wet. Her eyes were wide and pleading. She pressed her palms to the inside of the mirror as if trapped beneath ice.
"Don't let it touch you," she mouthed.
The reflection turned sharply, its head snapping like a marionette's. "Quiet."
Her reflection blurred, then cracked. Tiny fissures spider-webbed around her face. Aarav felt a throb in his skull—like pressure building behind his eyes.
He whispered, "Who is she?"
"She's what the mirror forgets," the other him said softly. "And I'm what it remembers."
The bulb flickered again, dimmer. The corners of the room stretched, shadows lengthening unnaturally. Aarav's pulse hammered. "What do you want?"
"To finish what you started."
The mirror began to hum, a low vibration that sank into the floorboards. Dust trembled in the air. His reflection raised a hand, fingers trembling with anticipation. "You opened the journal. You called me."
"I didn't mean to—"
"But you did," the reflection hissed. "Intent doesn't matter in places like this."
The glass shimmered. Behind it, the girl pounded her fists, her voice muffled by the barrier. "Run! Before it breathes!"
Then the reflection whispered, almost tenderly, "You can't run from yourself."
The surface bulged outward like a lung inhaling. A faint, cold mist spread across the room. Aarav's breath came out white.
The reflection's hand pressed against the glass—then through it.
The sound wasn't a crack; it was a scream muffled in water. The fingers were pale and metallic, dripping something that hissed on the wooden floor.
Aarav stumbled back, but the hand caught his wrist.
Ice flooded through his veins. His vision blurred at the edges. He tried to pull free, but the grip was iron.
"You're not supposed to be here," he gasped.
"I'm not supposed to leave," the reflection replied.
The mirror burst.
Glass shards exploded outward, slicing the air like frozen lightning. The light died completely, plunging the room into darkness. Only the sound of wind—no, whispering—remained.
The shards hovered in mid-air, reflecting hundreds of Aaravs. Each one moved differently—some screaming, some smiling, some whispering words he couldn't understand. The diary's pages flipped wildly until they tore free and began circling around him like pale moths.
Aarav screamed as something cold crawled up his arm—his own shadow, writhing and tightening like a snake. From the darkness came a familiar laugh—his laugh, twisted.
He slammed into the wall, pain flashing bright behind his eyes. Somewhere in the black, the girl's voice echoed again, faint but urgent:
"Remember your name!"
The shadow around his arm paused. The whispering faltered.
Aarav forced the words out, choking on terror. "My name is Aarav Seth."
The mirror pieces fell to the ground all at once.
Silence.
He dropped to his knees, gasping. The cold faded from his body, replaced by the ache of bruises and confusion. He blinked—and saw that the mirror was gone. Only the empty frame remained, edges still wet with condensation.
In the reflection of a shard near his foot, the girl's face lingered for a heartbeat. She looked terrified. Then she mouthed one final word:
"Run."
A door creaked behind him. The sound came from the hallway—the one that had been sealed shut for years. Light flickered beneath the crack, warm and inviting, almost human.
Aarav stood slowly. The diary lay open on the floor, words shifting once more:
The mirror breathes through doors.
The bulb flickered back on. The air felt wrong again—too still, too expectant.
He turned toward the hallway.
The door opened by itself.
Something inside whispered his name.