The Door That Followed Him Home

Soren had been staring at it for hours.

The door stood at the far end of his apartment.

It had not been there before.

But it was there now.

Standing perfectly still, its surface smooth and unmarked—except for his name.

Not scratched in.

Not written.

Carved.

The lettering was precise, too perfect, as if it had always been part of the wood.

And yet, he had never seen this door before.

His fingers curled into his palm.

His breath was slow.

Careful.

The golden thread had snapped. The city had shown him its real face.

And now—

The city wanted him to step inside.

The Stillness of Something Watching

He had tried to ignore it.

For hours, he had done everything else.

He had sat at his desk, flipping through the journal. The pages whispered beneath his fingers, the ink shifting when he wasn’t looking.

He had left the apartment, walked the streets of Luthathel, let the cold air burn his lungs.

But the door was always there when he returned.

Waiting.

His thoughts twisted.

Had it always been there?

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Had he simply not noticed before?

Was he only now beginning to see?

The whispering curled through the room.

> You’ve seen it before.

Soren’s jaw tightened.

He knew better than to listen.

He knew better than to answer.

But the door was open.

Just an inch.

A sliver of darkness.

Waiting for him to step closer.

The Decision That Wasn’t His

He should have left.

Should have walked out and never come back.

But his body betrayed him.

His legs moved.

His fingers reached out.

And before his mind could catch up—

He was standing before the door.

The whispering grew louder.

The city was holding its breath.

His fingers touched the wood.

Cold.

Colder than it should have been.

Like the temperature of something without life.

A pulse throbbed against his ribs.

Soren exhaled.

Then, slowly—

He pushed the door open.

The Room That Did Not Belong

He expected darkness.

Expected another void, another shapeless place that didn’t belong to this world.

Instead—

He saw a room.

A study.

Small. Familiar.

A desk sat near the window, a leather-bound journal open upon its surface. An oil lamp flickered beside it, casting soft golden light across the wooden floors.

Soren’s stomach twisted.

He had seen this room before.

No.

Not just seen it.

He had been here.

But when?

His pulse slammed.

Everything in this room—every detail—was exactly the same as his own apartment.

But this was not his apartment.

And then he saw it.

The mirror.

Hanging on the wall beside the desk.

Soren’s breath came too sharp, too fast.

Because the moment he looked at it—

His reflection was already watching him.

And this time—

It did not smile.

The Man Sitting at the Desk

Soren couldn’t move.

The reflection was wrong.

Not like before—not a trick of the glass.

It was him.

But it wasn’t.

His posture was different. His expression was still. Empty.

And for the first time, Soren realized—

The reflection was not alone.

A man sat at the desk.

A man he had not seen when he entered.

The air thinned.

Soren’s muscles locked.

The man did not move.

Did not speak.

But he was waiting.

Soren took a step forward, the floor creaking beneath his weight.

The man turned the page of the journal.

The whispering surged.

Soren’s throat tightened.

“Who are you?”

The man at the desk did not look up.

His fingers trailed over the inked pages, reading something Soren could not see.

Then—

Without lifting his head, without changing his expression—

He spoke.

“You shouldn’t have come back.”

Soren’s breath hitched.

His stomach churned.

The voice was his.

The Words Written in His Own Hand

The air thickened.

Soren took another step forward.

The man—his other self—finally lifted his head.

Soren staggered back.

His own face.

His own eyes.

But there was nothing behind them.

The other Soren exhaled softly, tapping a single finger against the open journal.

“Read,” he murmured.

Soren’s hands trembled.

But he stepped closer.

He looked down.

The ink was fresh.

His own handwriting stared back at him.

> You have always been here.

And soon, you will be again.

Soren’s blood ran cold.

His body knew this.

Knew these words.

He had written them before.

His throat was dry.

“What does this mean?”

The other Soren tilted his head.

“You already know.”

The whispering surged again.

Soren’s breath quickened.

The mirror.

His reflection was still there.

Still watching.

And now—

It was moving.

The Mirror That Let Something Through

The whispering changed.

It became a voice.

Not a whisper.

Not a thought.

Something deeper.

Something closer.

“Step through.”

Soren’s stomach twisted.

The mirror was no longer reflecting.

It was showing.

A place. A moment. A time before now.

The golden thread had broken.

His memories had returned.

The city had been hiding something from him.

And now—

The mirror was giving him the choice to remember everything.

The air pulled.

The reflection beckoned.

And Soren knew.

If he stepped forward—

If he crossed the threshold—

Nothing would ever be the same again.