The Reflection That Wasn’t His
Soren stood frozen.
His own reflection was watching him.
Not mirroring him.
Not following his movements.
Watching.
The mirror no longer felt like glass. It felt like a window.
And beyond it—
Something was waiting.
The whispering grew louder.
Not from behind him.
Not from the room.
From inside the mirror itself.
Soren’s breathing was shallow. Controlled.
But his hands? They trembled.
His other self sat at the desk, watching, waiting.
“You already know what’s on the other side,” he murmured.
Soren’s pulse slammed.
The mirror shuddered.
A ripple.
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Like something pressing against the surface from the inside.
Waiting for him to step forward.
The Choice That Wasn’t a Choice
He should have run.
Should have turned away.
But the air pulled at him.
His body was too close now.
His breath fogged against the glass.
The whispering sharpened.
And then—
His reflection reached out first.
Soren’s breath hitched.
His own hand, pressing against the other side of the mirror.
A perfect copy. A perfect match.
But it had moved before him.
Not a reflection.
Something else.
Something that had been waiting for him to see it.
His fingers hovered over the glass.
If he touched it—
Would he be pulled through?
Would he vanish?
Or worse—
Would something come through instead?
The whispering rose.
> Step through.
Soren clenched his teeth.
He was losing himself.
He had to think.
He had to—
The air lurched.
The mirror cracked.
The Shattering of Self
The world collapsed inward.
Glass shattered—not into pieces, but into fragments of time, of space, of memory.
Soren fell.
Not backward.
Not forward.
Down.
Like the city itself had swallowed him whole.
The Place That Was Never Real
When he hit the ground, there was no sound.
The world was black and gold.
Not light.
Not shadow.
Something in between.
The ground beneath him was not solid.
It shifted, like sand under his fingertips, like fabric unraveling at the seams.
And above him—
The sky did not exist.
Only a vast, endless reflection.
A mirror stretched across the horizon.
His own face stared back at him.
But not just one.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Some with different eyes.
Some with different scars.
Some that smiled.
Some that screamed.
Soren’s stomach twisted.
He tried to move.
The ground resisted.
Like he was sinking.
Like he was becoming part of it.
The whispering returned.
But this time, it was not a voice.
It was laughter.
And it was coming from all of them.
Every single reflection.
Laughing.
The Memory That Broke Free
His chest ached.
Not from fear.
Not from exhaustion.
From knowing.
Something was returning.
Something the city had stolen from him.
A piece of himself.
A truth.
His vision blurred.
And suddenly—
He was standing somewhere else.
The Ballroom That Was Never Empty
Soren blinked.
The mirrors were gone.
The laughter had vanished.
He was standing in the House of Amber.
But not the ruined version.
Not the abandoned wreckage he had seen before.
It was full.
The chandeliers glowed.
The masked guests danced in perfect time, moving like clockwork, their golden attire shimmering under the lights.
Soren’s breath came sharply.
This was a memory.
Not from before.
Not from another.
From himself.
He had been here.
And he had forgotten.
The music played.
The dancers twirled.
And then—
A woman stepped forward.
Not masked.
Not faceless.
Soren’s pulse stopped.
Because he knew her.
And as soon as he saw her—
Everything came back.