Morning bled softly into the room.
The light that crept through the curtains was pale, uncertain — like the world itself hadn't decided if it was real yet. Ezra blinked into it slowly. His head felt heavy, stuffed with cotton and echoes. The medicine lingered in his bloodstream, a quiet fog curling through every thought.
He moved through his morning like an echo of himself — clothes, shoes, door. Each step slightly delayed, as if time had turned viscous.
Outside, the city exhaled under the drizzle. Rain threaded down gutters, trickled over glass. The streets glowed faintly with the reflection of a sun that never broke through.
Ezra walked aimlessly. The medicine dulled everything — the cold, the ache, the noise. The world felt manageable. Manageable and wrong.
He turned down the familiar street near the old lamppost, boots splashing through thin puddles. Then, ahead — one puddle larger than the rest, stretching across the concrete like a sheet of dark glass.
He stopped.
The surface didn't ripple. It shimmered.
He stared, breath slowing. His reflection stared back — black-eyed, pale, almost still. Then the water trembled, but not from the rain. It fractured.
crrrrrrk—
The sound wasn't water. It was glass breaking under invisible pressure. Cracks spread across the reflection like spiderwebs of light. His reflection smiled — half a second before he did.
The world around him tilted.
He stepped back, but the ground fell away.
And suddenly he wasn't standing anymore. He was falling — or floating — inside something that had no direction.
Mirrors unfolded around him, bending endlessly, reflecting him into infinity. Every motion repeated a thousand times, each reflection a little slower, a little more wrong.
Then came the pain.
Not sharp, but tearing — like his body was unraveling thread by thread, muscle separating from bone, identity peeling from flesh. He tried to scream, but no sound carried in that place. The mirrors pulsed with light, every pulse stripping away another layer of himself.
He looked down — there was no down. Only the shimmer of glass and the faint outline of his form, stretching and fracturing into pieces.
He reached out to touch the wall. His fingers passed through it, leaving streaks of static. In one reflection, he saw himself without a face. In another, he saw something watching from the opposite side of the glass.
He tried to move. His body didn't listen. His breath came shallow, ragged. The world inside the mirror pulsed — expanding, contracting — as if breathing him in.
Then the tearing stopped.
Everything froze.
His reflection leaned close from the other side of the glass. Its lips moved, but no sound came — just shapes.
And then, with one slow motion, the reflection pressed its palm against the glass. The surface cracked.
Shattered.
The sound vanished. The color vanished.
There was no mirror. No rain. No world.
Ezra lay motionless on the street — eyes half-open, rain pooling beneath his cheek. His breath fogged faintly in the cold air, but no one passed by.
The storm had emptied the streets; the city had gone blind to him.
A drop of water slid into his open hand, rippling the puddle beside him. His reflection flickered — a dozen faces, overlapping for a heartbeat — and then was gone.
Only rain remained.
And the quiet, endless rhythm of something watching from behind the glass.
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