The Boy in the Mirror

The first time Ethan Rivera noticed something strange about his mirror, he blamed it on the storm. It was past midnight, and the wind outside howled like it was alive, slapping tree branches against his bedroom window in wild rhythm. His room was still—too still—except for the faint flicker of his bedside lamp and the quiet scratch of his pencil across a half-finished sketch. He yawned, rubbing his eyes. He should've been asleep. School started in six hours. But there was something comforting about drawing in the quiet, when the house felt like it was floating in time. Then it happened. The mirror blinked. Not Ethan. Not his own reflection. The mirror itself blinked. He froze, pencil midair. His heart skipped. He stared at the glass across the room. His reflection stared back. Nothing. No movement. Maybe he imagined it. Just tired. Just his brain messing with him. He shook his head and leaned back, laughing nervously at himself. “Get it together, Ethan,” he muttered. He turned off the lamp. He got under the covers. And just as his eyes were closing— Tap. A sound. Soft. From the mirror. He sat up instantly. The room was pitch black now, except for the moonlight filtering in through the window. The mirror stood across from his bed. There was no reflection. None. Just glass. And then, words appeared. “Don’t forget me.” Scrawled in fog. Like breath on the inside of the mirror. Ethan leapt from his bed and turned on the light—but the message was gone. His reflection was back. His own eyes, wide and pale with fear, stared back at him.