Lyos Lever barely slept. He sat in his darkened apartment, the ornate mirror wrapped in a scarf on his desk, Mirelle’s warnings echoing in his mind.

  If you ever see your reflection move on its own, cover it. Don’t let it see you for too long. It learns. It remembers. And one day, it might not give you back.

  He watched the city lights flicker through the blinds. The world outside seemed distant, as if he were trapped behind glass, watching life unfold from the wrong side. Every so often, he glanced at the clock. The minutes crawled by, each tick a reminder of time he could not account for.

  He tried to distract himself with work, but his mind wandered. He found himself doodling the intersecting lines again, filling page after page with the same symbol. He didn’t remember starting, but his hand moved with a mind of its own.

  At dawn, exhaustion finally claimed him. He drifted into a restless sleep, haunted by dreams of mirrors and locked doors. In one, he stood in a room lined with glass, dozens of Lyoses staring back at him. Some wept, some screamed, and one just smiled.

  He woke with a start, heart racing. The scarf had slipped off the mirror on his desk. His reflection gazed back, perfectly still. Lyos stared at it for a long moment, waiting for it to move. It didn’t. He quickly covered it again, hands shaking.

  His phone buzzed. A message from Liora:

  Police want to question you again. Witness is remembering more. Call me.

  Lyos dressed and left his apartment, keeping his eyes averted from every reflective surface. On the train, he caught glimpses of himself in the window, but forced himself not to look.

  At the police station, Liora met him outside. She looked tired, her hair pulled back in a hasty knot. “You okay?”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Lyos nodded, but she saw through it. “You look worse than yesterday.”

  He managed a weak smile. “Didn’t sleep.”

  Inside, the detective was brusque. “Mr. Lever, the witness says you spoke to him during the attack. Told him to ‘be still’ and ‘watch.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

  Lyos shook his head. “I don’t remember being there.”

  The detective’s eyes narrowed. “You’re on every camera for twenty-six minutes, then you’re gone. No memory, no alibi. If you’re hiding something, now’s the time.”

  Lyos’s hands clenched in his lap. “I wish I could help.”

  Afterwards, Liora pulled him aside. “You need to get ahead of this, Lyos. If you’re not careful, they’ll make you the villain.”

  He looked at her, desperate. “What if I am?”

  She touched his arm. “You’re not. But you need to fight whatever’s happening to you.”

  He nodded, but fear gnawed at him. Was it even possible to fight something inside his own mind?

  That evening, Lyos returned to Mirelle’s townhouse. She greeted him with a nod and led him to her library, walls lined with old books and covered mirrors.

  “Did you use the mirror?” she asked.

  “I kept it covered,” Lyos said. “But I keep seeing things. In dreams. In windows. It’s like there’s another me, waiting.”

  Mirelle poured tea, her hands steady. “There is. The split isn’t just memory loss. It’s a division of self. Most people never notice, but for some, the other side gets stronger. It learns, adapts, and eventually tries to take control.”

  Lyos shuddered. “How do I stop it?”

  She shook her head. “You can’t stop the split, but you can set boundaries. Rules. Rituals. That’s why you cover mirrors. That’s why you never stare too long. The more you interact, the more it grows.”

  Lyos sipped his tea, trying to calm his nerves. “Why me?”

  Mirelle’s gaze was sad. “Some people are born with cracks. Trauma widens them. Yours is deeper than most.”

  He thought of his parents, the night they died, the years of guilt and anger. “If it gets out…if I lose control…”

  Mirelle nodded. “That’s why you’re here. To learn. To fight back.”

  She handed him a small notebook. “Write down everything. Every blackout, every strange dream, every time you see something that shouldn’t be there. Patterns will emerge. And when they do, you’ll have a weapon.”

  Lyos took the notebook, hope flickering in his chest. “Thank you.”

  Mirelle smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Be careful, Lyos. The other side is always watching.”

  That night, Lyos sat at his desk, notebook open. He wrote down everything he could remember: the blackouts, the dreams, the messages, the smiles in the glass. He forced himself to stare at the covered mirror, daring the thing inside to show itself.

  As midnight approached, he felt the familiar pull of exhaustion. He fought to stay awake, but his eyelids grew heavy.

  Just before sleep claimed him, he heard a whisper from the mirror, so quiet he almost missed it:

  “Twenty-six minutes. That’s all I need.”

  Lyos jerked awake, heart pounding, but the room was silent. He checked the mirror. The scarf was gone.

  His reflection smiled.