WHEN THE MIRROR WOULDN’T SETTLE
687 Words
Kevin doesn’t sleep.
He tries—God knows he tries—but every time he closes his eyes, the after-image of the mirror hovers behind his eyelids.
The delayed reflection.
The silhouette on the floor.
That silent shaping of his name.
By 5:03 A.M., he gives up on pretending.
The apartment feels wrong in the morning light. Too bright. Too exposed. Like the walls themselves remember what happened before he does.
He moves carefully, avoiding every reflective surface on instinct.
Laptop lid—closed.
Microwave—towel draped over it.
Window—curtains drawn.
The bathroom door stays shut.
He won’t open it.
Not yet.
He forces himself to breathe, slow and steady, like a normal person starting a normal day.
It doesn’t work.
His phone buzzes with a message.
LIAM:
Did you sleep?
Kevin types back:
I’m fine. Stop worrying.
The dots appear immediately—Liam is still awake too.
Then they vanish.
No reply.
Kevin pockets the phone and grabs his notebook. Not to write—his hands are shaking too hard for that—but to give himself something to hold onto.
A knock breaks the silence.
Sharp. Sudden. Real.
He freezes.
Not from the mirror.
Not from the walls.
Someone at the door.
He forces his legs to move and cracks it open an inch.
Detective Rowan Briggs stands in the hallway—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing the same expression she uses on witnesses who are either lying or about to.
“Morning,” she says. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks,” Kevin mutters. “What do you want?”
Her gaze sweeps over him, sharp and unreadable.
“You live fourteen floors away from a security director who monitors half the city,” she says. “He called us. Said you might have information about St. Gabriel’s.”
His blood goes cold.
“Liam called you?”
“More like warned us,” Rowan says. “And told me to make sure you didn’t go near the scene.”
Kevin’s breath catches. “I didn’t.”
“Good.” She leans against the doorframe. “Because someone else did.”
A beat.
A breath.
“What do you mean?”
Rowan’s jaw tightens. “We found fingerprints smeared on the inside of a surgical-grade observation window. Perfect prints. Like someone pressed their whole palm into the glass from the wrong side.”
She waits.
Watching him.
Measuring him.
Kevin’s pulse slams in his throat.
He forces out, “So? Strange things happen in hospitals.”
Rowan doesn’t blink. “Not like this.”
She pulls out her phone and shows him a picture.
A handprint.
Pressed deep into the glass.
Too deep.
Almost like the surface bent inward around it.
Kevin’s stomach twists violently.
His own hand trembles at his side.
Rowan lowers the phone.
“Here’s the part I care about,” she says quietly. “The prints match nothing in our database.”
His breath falters.
“But,” she adds, “they have the same bone structure as yours.”
Kevin’s heart stops.
Actually stops.
“What are you implying?”
Rowan steps closer—not threatening, but certain.
“I’m implying that something is wrong. And I’m trying to figure out if it’s you… or something connected to you.”
He swallows hard.
The air feels too thin. Too sharp.
“You should leave,” he whispers.
Rowan studies him for a long, assessing moment.
Then she nods once.
“Call me if anything happens,” she says, her tone shifting—less detective, more human. “Even if it’s nothing. Especially if it’s nothing.”
She walks away.
The moment the elevator doors close behind her, Kevin sags against the wall, breath shaking out of him.
His phone vibrates again.
LIAM:
Don’t let anyone in.
Another buzz.
LIAM:
Not even the police.
A cold heaviness blooms in Kevin’s stomach.
He lifts his eyes toward the curtained window.
Behind the fabric, faint and soft—
the glass shifts.
A small distortion.
A tiny ripple.
As if something on the other side
just leaned closer.
And waited.
⸻
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