Beneath The Surface

Chapter 2: Reflections

Mia’s heart pounded as she ascended the narrow staircase, every creak beneath her feet like a warning. She tightened her grip on the old fireplace poker she'd grabbed from the hearth—its weight grounding her even as her thoughts spiraled. The strange sound she’d heard moments ago had come from the second floor. Footsteps—or something pretending to be footsteps.

The hallway at the top was cloaked in shadow, despite the afternoon sun outside. She stepped forward, trying to ignore the chill that slithered down her spine.

She paused outside the bedroom she had once called her own. The door was slightly ajar.

With one push, it swung open.

Nothing.

The room remained as untouched as it had been for years, preserved in the dust-covered stillness of memory. Pale blue wallpaper peeled at the edges, and an old teddy bear slumped in the corner beside a toy chest. The bed was still made, blankets tucked with military precision—her mother’s doing, no doubt.

Mia stepped inside slowly. Her eyes scanned the room. She remembered lying awake in this bed as a child, staring at the patterns in the wallpaper. It had always felt like the stars on the wall watched her. Back then, it was comforting. Now, it felt... wrong.

The window across the room was wide open.

She frowned. The air drifting in was cold and smelled faintly of salt. A gull cried in the distance, and the wind tugged at the curtains like restless fingers.

She closed the window and locked it, then turned slowly, eyes tracing every corner, every shadow. Nothing appeared disturbed. Still, something felt... off.

Trying to shake the unease, Mia returned to the kitchen. The old journal sat on the table, still open to the page she’d been reading earlier. She stared at the eerie drawing again—a figure submerged in water, eyes wide in terror, mouth open in a scream.

The handwriting was her mother’s, but the drawings looked almost childlike in their urgency. Raw and frantic.

She flipped the page.

There was more. A symbol she didn’t recognize—concentric circles overlaid with jagged lines. Beneath it, in elegant cursive: We wear borrowed memories.

Mia stared at the words.

Something stirred in the back of her mind—a feeling more than a memory. A kind of deep discomfort, like she had seen that phrase before. Heard it, even.

The kettle whistled, snapping her back to the present.

She poured herself a cup of tea and carried it into the living room. The rain outside had picked up, tapping steadily against the windows. The storm hadn’t passed after all.

Curling up in the old armchair, she opened the journal again.

The following pages became even more fragmented. Sketches of faces with hollow eyes. Maps of places that didn’t exist. One page simply read: Mira doesn’t belong here.

Mira?

Her breath caught.

She hadn’t heard that name in years—not since she was a little girl and had asked her mother about it after a strange dream. Her mother had gone pale and said it was just a made-up name.

Now it was here, written in Eleanor’s hand.

She leaned back, heart pounding. Was Mira someone Eleanor had known? Or something more?

Was Mira... her?

That night, she dreamed again.

She was underwater. The current pulled at her, cold and relentless. Her limbs were heavy, her lungs screaming for air. Through the darkness, she saw a child—barely six years old—floating just out of reach. The girl looked at her, eyes wide, expression eerily calm. She looked like Mia.

Mia tried to call out, but water filled her mouth. Her scream was silent.

The child raised a hand and pointed to something behind Mia. When Mia turned, she saw a wall of mirrors beneath the surface—shimmering and endless. In each reflection, she saw herself. But different. Older. Younger. With different eyes. Different scars.

And in one reflection, the girl whispered, “Mira.”

She woke up gasping, the sheets tangled around her legs, drenched in sweat.

It was still dark out, but she couldn’t stay in bed. She padded downstairs and made coffee, her hands trembling.

The journal sat where she had left it, like it was waiting for her.

Mia pulled out her phone and began researching the name Mira Thompson. Nothing relevant. No local records, no childhood photos of her before the age of seven. Odd, considering her mother had always insisted they had lived in Crestwood her whole life.

She turned to the attic.

Boxes of old documents, photos, and records filled the narrow space, many sealed and labeled with Eleanor’s meticulous handwriting. Mia found the one marked Medical / School Records and opened it.

Inside were a few scattered documents—vaccination forms, a faded report card from second grade—but the earliest record was dated 2001.

Nothing before that.

No birth certificate.

Mia's chest tightened. How was that possible?

She descended into the musty hallway, clutching the papers. If her mother had faked those records... what had she been hiding?

She returned to the journal. The phrase "We wear borrowed memories" haunted her. Was it metaphorical? Or literal?

And then there was the missing time—anything before she turned seven was a blank. She had always chalked it up to a bad memory. But now... it felt intentional.

The next day, she walked to the Crestwood Public Library. The rain had stopped, but the streets glistened under a gray sky. The town was quiet, as always, but now it felt watchful.

Inside the library, the air smelled of dust and old ink. She approached the front desk, where an elderly woman glanced up.

“Excuse me,” Mia said. “Do you have newspaper archives? From around 1998 or 1999?”

The librarian narrowed her eyes. “Microfilm’s in the back. You’ll need to use the reader. I’ll set you up.”

Mia spent hours scrolling through microfilm, her eyes burning from the screen’s glow. Most headlines were mundane—church fundraisers, high school sports, obituaries.

And then, she found it.

August 4, 1999: Child Found on Shore—Identity Unknown.

She froze.

The article was short, but it chilled her more than any nightmare.

A young girl, estimated to be six years old, was discovered on the rocky shoreline near Black Hollow Bay early Wednesday morning. The child was unresponsive and taken to Crestwood General. Authorities have not been able to identify her, and no missing persons reports have matched her description. The girl has not spoken since being found.

There was a photo.

The child looked exactly like Mia.

Or… Mira.

Tears stung her eyes. She quickly printed the article and folded it into her jacket pocket. She felt sick.

Had her mother found her that day and adopted her without telling anyone? Was she hiding her from something? Or someone?

And why?

She left the library in a daze, the sky darkening with clouds again. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

When she returned to the house, something was off.

The front door was ajar.

Her pulse quickened. She stepped inside slowly. The hallway was still. She checked each room, one by one.

Nothing missing—except the journal.

Panic rose in her chest.

She ran back into the kitchen. The muddy outline of a shoe print stood just inside the back door.

Someone had been there.

And they had taken the journal..