THE REFLECTION THAT LINGERS
1137 Words
Chapter Two: The Reflection That Lingers
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“You’re not supposed to be here, Sky. Not like this.”
Her words hung in the stale air long after she vanished into the hallway’s shadows.
I stood frozen, staring at the mirror she’d touched—half expecting her reflection to still be standing there. Watching me. Waiting.
But it was just me now.
Me. Sky Arora
Psychiatrist. Assigned here for temporary observation and internal documentation.
That’s what the file said.
And yet… something in Selene’s voice had unsettled me. She hadn’t looked at me like a doctor. She looked at me like I was lost.
I rubbed my temples. Maybe she was just a clever, manipulative case. Someone playing tricks to test boundaries. Or maybe I was tired. Overworked.
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I found my room again by accident. The white halls folded into each other like pages in a diary written too many times.
Inside, the air felt colder. The mirror above the bed stared down, wide and still, the corners fogged faintly as if someone had just breathed on it.
I sat on the edge of the mattress, trying to piece everything together.
There was no official nurse station. No patient schedules. Not even a clipboard.
Was this a highly privatized facility?
A rehab center with unconventional methods?
I should have known. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember who briefed me.
Only a letter. A vague transfer order, no digital record. Just: “Observe. Do not interfere.”
And Selene. Her name wasn’t on any list.
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I opened the small bedside drawer. Maybe I’d missed some orientation guide, a schedule—anything. But there was just a folded piece of paper.
Old. Water-stained. Almost erased.
I opened it slowly, the ink blurred but readable.
Day 1: Don’t forget who you are.
Day 2: They’ll try to make you forget.
Day 3: Mirror. Clock. Name. Hold onto them.
No header. No signature.
And scribbled faintly at the bottom:
If Selene finds you… listen.
I gripped the paper harder, a cold weight forming in my chest. This wasn’t written to a doctor. It felt personal. Urgent. Like a version of me I didn’t remember had left breadcrumbs.
Clock. Mirror. Name.
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I looked toward the clock on the wall.
9:03.
Just like earlier.
Had it… not moved?
I stood and walked closer. The hands were frozen. No ticking.
And then I noticed it — the clock wasn’t glassed. It had no covering, just bent hands and gears exposed, like something wounded.
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I turned to the mirror. Still there. Still showing me.
I watched myself watching me.
But now I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. Or who.
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Later that day—if it even was later, time didn’t feel real here—I stepped into the hallway again.
That’s when I noticed it. A thin red line, trailing across the left wall.
Lipstick? Crayon? Blood?
It stretched across the corridor, uneven, as if drawn by a trembling hand. Just above it, scrawled in a rushed hand:
Remember.
It stopped at a slightly open door.
Room 27.
I pushed it open.
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It wasn’t a patient room. Not even close.
Every surface inside—walls, floor, ceiling—was mirrored.
There was no light fixture, and yet the room shimmered in a soft glow, as though reflecting a sun that wasn’t there.
In the center stood Selene.
And a dozen versions of her.
Her reflections encircled her. Watching. Repeating. Perfectly synchronized.
All except one.
In the far-left mirror, one reflection wasn’t following the others.
It looked at me. Directly. Eyes wide and knowing.
And then—it smiled.
Selene hadn’t moved yet. She was still facing forward.
“Do you see it?” she asked softly.
Her voice echoed strangely, like it was coming from somewhere deeper than her throat. “The one that doesn’t follow?”
I swallowed. “That mirror… it’s broken.”
She turned now—real or reflection, I couldn’t tell—and stepped forward. All the versions followed. All but that one.
It stayed. Still. Smiling.
“What is this place?” I asked, voice barely steady.
She tilted her head.
“Tell me something, Doctor,” she said with a quiet sadness. “What was your last patient’s name?”
I opened my mouth—paused.
Nothing came.
“Your college? Your mentor?”
Silence.
“I…” I tried to think. Images flickered behind my eyes. Pages, corridors, coffee. But no faces. No names.
Selene walked toward the mirror. The wrong one.
She touched it.
“You’ve been here before,” she whispered. “But you left. And then… you came back.”
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“That’s not possible,” I said quickly. “I’ve only just—”
She turned back to face me.
“There are mirrors in every room here for a reason. They hold what you’ve left behind. What you can’t face. What they made you forget.”
“They?”
Selene nodded. “The ones who run this place. The ones who gave you that name.”
I flinched. “What name?”
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she stepped closer. Her eyes dark and infinite.
“You believed you were sent here as a doctor,” she said softly. “But what if that belief is just the last thing holding you together?”
“No,” I said quickly, stepping back. “I have a file. I have credentials. I’m here to observe—”
“There’s no file,” she interrupted. “There never was.”
The room pulsed. I felt dizzy.
“Look around, Sky. Do you see any patients? Any doctors? Any real walls?”
She walked past me, but as she did, her fingers brushed my hand—gentle and electric.
“You can leave. But not until you remember.”
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When I finally stumbled back into my room, my hands were shaking.
I paced. Sat. Stared.
That night, I covered the mirror with a blanket and tried to sleep. But I couldn’t. The silence felt watched. Like something just outside the glass was waiting for me to blink.
At some point, maybe past midnight, I sat up and reached for the note I’d found in the drawer earlier—the one with smeared handwriting and warnings.
But it was gone.
In its place was a different page. Same paper. Same faded ink.
But now it said:
You are not Sky.
You were never the doctor.
And beneath that, scratched in deep, uneven lines:
Check the mirror.
You’ll see who you really are.
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My chest tightened. I turned slowly toward the mirror—its blanket cover now pulled halfway down.
And in the reflection—
I wasn't alone.
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🕰✨ #EveryRoomHasAMirror
- Writer
