THE REFLECTIONS OF THE MIRROR

Alex raised his hand to wipe a mark from the bedroom mirror. The man in the glass kept both hands at his sides.

For a moment, Alex thought he had moved too quickly to see. He lowered his hand, then raised it again. His reflection watched him with the same tired eyes he saw each morning. The small scar above its eyebrow was his own. Nothing else in the room had changed.

Downstairs, the kettle clicked off. He had left his blue mug beside it, with the handle he had repaired the night before. Chris was due at nine to help collect a table from a customer. There were chairs to mend in the shed and a bill on the kitchen table. It was an ordinary morning, full of small jobs.

Then his reflection smiled.

Alex took a step back. His heel struck the bed frame. The smile widened, although he could feel his own mouth hanging open.

“Who are you?”

The glass darkened. A cold feeling moved across his forehead, as though someone had laid a wet cloth over his eyes. He reached for the bed, but his fingers found nothing. The floor seemed to fall away beneath him.

He landed on his knees without feeling any ground. There was no bed, no window and no door. Darkness stretched beyond his hands. He could hear himself breathing, fast and loud, yet the air did not seem to enter his chest.

“Where am I?”

“Between choices.”

The voice came from ahead of him. Alex turned towards it, trying to judge how far away it was.

“I need to get home. My friend is coming.”

“What do you remember about the mirror?”

“It’s in my bedroom. I’ve had it for years.”

“And what came before those years?”

Alex pressed a hand to his scar. There had been an accident ten years ago. A doctor had explained that some memories might return and others might remain lost. Chris had helped him accept the gaps. They had built shelves, watched bad films and learnt which quiet roads Alex could bear to drive along. He had stopped treating every forgotten thing as something he must find.

A patch of light appeared in the dark. Inside it, a little girl knelt in a garden with mud on both knees. She held up a worm for someone to admire. Alex knew the laugh that came before she spoke. He knew she would ask him to give it a name.

The knowledge frightened him more than the darkness.

“Dad?”

She looked about five. When she smiled, one front tooth was missing. Alex reached towards her, but the light moved back.

Another memory came. A warm weight asleep against his chest. A book open across his knees. His own voice promising that he would always find his way back to her.

He remembered making that promise. He could not remember leaving.

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Samantha.”

Alex tried to say he knew nobody by that name. Instead, he saw a small hand closing around his finger and felt a love so familiar that it hurt.

“She is your daughter.”

He remained on his knees, reaching for a child he had somehow forgotten.

The child vanished before Alex could touch her. A room took the place of the garden, with candles burning around a stone floor. Six people in grey robes stood in a circle. Samantha was there, older now, holding a man’s hand. Alex could see the man’s coat and the back of his head, but not his face.

He knew the feel of that small hand. He remembered how hard it had gripped his own.

“She was eight,” the voice said. “That was when they took her.”

One of the six people knelt before the girl. She was an older woman with a tired face.

“You walked through the glass again. Did anything follow you?”

Samantha shook her head. The man pulled her closer.

“She is staying with me.”

“She walked through another mirror in her sleep,” the woman said. “Her gift is growing. We can teach her to sense when glass is becoming a door. Your house has no protection if one opens.”

Alex felt the man’s anger as though it were his own. Yet he could also see Samantha looking towards the covered glass behind the woman. She was frightened of something beyond her father’s reach.

On the floor lay a drawing of two open circles with a short straight line between them. A silver key rested beside it. Alex bent to look, but the room slipped away.

Samantha stood at a window in a large house. She was twelve now. She waved to someone outside, then held up a folded letter. Alex remembered writing it. He had crossed out an angry line so she would not have to read it.

Then she was eighteen, standing beside a tall mirror set in stone. The same sign marked its frame. Tears ran down her face.

The child he had reached for was a young woman now. He wondered what else he had missed, and why she was crying.

“You promised you would never open it,” she said.

The man stood with his back to Alex. He held the silver key.

“I promised I would bring you home.”

“I am home.”

“With them?”

“With everyone who is still alive because the door is closed.”

Her words shook Alex. He had felt the man’s wish to take her away, but now he heard what she wanted. Before she could say more, darkness covered the scene.

“What happened next?”

“You lost her.”

“Show me.”

Nothing appeared. Alex stood, uncertain whether his legs were really holding him.

“Why did I forget my own daughter?”

“Because one of you had to forget.”

“Which of us?”

The voice left that unanswered. Instead, light spread across the floor. Alex saw his kitchen, bright with afternoon sun. A grown woman sat at the table. She had Samantha’s eyes, but her face had changed with years he could not recall.

“There is a path where you bring her home,” the voice said. “Would you like to see it?”

Alex wanted to step into that kitchen. The need was almost stronger than thought. Yet the young woman’s words stayed with him. She had already called somewhere else home.

“Is this another memory?”

“A life that could be.”

He moved closer, watching the woman at the table. This time he meant to listen to her.

The kitchen formed around Alex, warm with sunlight. Samantha turned from the table and smiled. She was a grown woman now, near thirty, wearing a blue jumper with a loose thread at one cuff. She reached for his hand.

“You’re home.”

He felt her fingers against his own. After the darkness, the touch seemed too good to question. A second place was set beside hers. His blue mug stood between them, full of tea.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“We have time now.”

“Do you work nearby?”

She smiled again. “We have time now.”

Alex looked down at their hands. Hers rested lightly on his, without moving. Beyond the window, the garden was still. A bird sat on the fence, its beak open, but he could hear no song.

A newspaper lay beside the bread. Its front page showed a street covered in broken glass. Windows had burst in houses across the country. People were missing. Some had last been seen standing before mirrors.

“What happened?”

Samantha lowered her eyes. A white memorial card lay beneath the paper. Alex pulled it free and read Chris’s name, followed by two dates. The second was next month’s date. Beneath them was a photograph he recognised from a day at the coast.

He dropped the card. “No.”

“Every choice has a cost,” the voice said.

Alex looked towards the doorway. Nobody stood there. Samantha sat without speaking while he picked up the card again. Chris would never make another joke about Alex keeping broken things. He would never arrive late with a bag of rolls and claim he had been doing them both a favour.

For several seconds, grief made the kitchen feel real.

Then Alex saw the mug. Its handle joined the blue body without a crack. He had glued it back the previous evening, leaving a thin white line near the top. He could still feel the dried glue on his thumb.

“Where is my old mug?”

“It is the same one.”

“No. Mine is repaired.”

The voice was silent. Alex knew a mug could be replaced. A picture of a later day might contain a different one. But this voice had claimed it was his, while missing something he had done only yesterday.

He turned to Samantha. “What would you choose?”

Her lips parted. Before she answered, the window went dark.

“Look at what you can have,” the voice said.

Light fell on her face. The newspaper faded, though Alex could still feel its rough edge beneath his palm.

Someone was choosing what he saw. That did not mean every danger was false. It meant a picture and a voice were not enough to prove that Chris must die so Samantha could stay.

“Let her finish,” Alex said.

The kitchen shook. Far away, someone called his name. It was Chris, sounding angry and afraid.

Alex let go of the hand on the table. The woman did not try to hold him.

“Alex. Can you hear me?”

He turned towards the sound. For the first time since leaving his bedroom, something reached him that the hidden voice had not offered. He stretched out both hands and followed it.