I found myself in a bathroom. The light above the mirror flickered, casting the small room in a dim, uneven glow. The mirror was foggy, the glass covered in a thin layer of condensation. I wiped it clean with my hand, and my reflection stared back at me. For a moment, everything seemed normal. Then I noticed it—something was wrong.

My reflection wasn’t quite right. It moved, but there was a delay, a split-second lag between my actions and its response. I lifted my hand, and it followed, but too slowly. My heart began to pound, a creeping sense of unease washing over me. I leaned closer, my eyes narrowing. That’s when it happened. My reflection smiled.

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It was a cold, twisted smile, and I felt no inclination to do the same. Panic gripped me as I watched my reflection move on its own, its lips beginning to move, mouthing words I couldn’t hear. I shook my head, stepped back, but it continued, its movements growing more animated, more desperate. It pounded on the glass, its eyes wide with fear—or was it anger?

The mirror cracked. A spiderweb of fractures spread across the surface, and I could still see my reflection beneath them, distorted, broken, but still moving. I turned away, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps, and the dream ended there, leaving me with the feeling that something had followed me back into the waking world.