The glass did not just reflect. It pulled.
I felt it the moment my eyes locked onto the shard in his hand, a quiet force tightening behind my ribs, drawing my attention deeper than it should go, deeper than sight alone could reach.
“Kessler,” I said. But my voice sounded distant. Like it no longer fully belonged to me. “Do not look at it.”
His warning came shortly this time, but I did not stop. Because I had already seen him.
My father stood inside the reflection, not blurred, not distorted, but clear in a way that made everything else feel less real, his posture familiar, his presence steady, like he had simply been waiting for me to finally look in the right direction.
“Dad.” The word slipped out before I could stop it. The figure moved. His gaze lifted, and then he looked straight
