REFLECTED IN HIM

Episode1-TheRoomWithNoMirrors

The light in the room never changed.

It was a pale, artificial white—the kind that blurred edges and made everything look like it was underwater. Morning, noon, and night blurred into each other like wet paint. Even the sun didn’t reach her here. Just buzzing fluorescents above and a cracked window sealed shut with wire mesh.

Liora sat where she always did—cross-legged on the hospital bed, back straight, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her fingers gripped the sleeves of her gown, bunching the fabric at her elbows. She hadn’t spoken all morning. Not to the nurse. Not to the psychologist who came in and asked questions with careful eyes.

She didn’t have answers.

Only sensations.

A slow tension in her chest that came and went like ocean tide. A weight between her shoulder blades. The sense that something was always just behind her—just outside her vision—waiting.

Her eyes drifted to the corner of the room. There used to be a mirror there, once. She was sure of it. The paint on the wall had a slightly brighter square, a frame-shaped shadow where the color didn’t match. But when she asked about it, they said no. That no mirrors were allowed.

Cecily had said with a light, practiced voice, like she’d explained it a thousand times before. “It’s not good for patients in recovery.”

As if that was what this was.

As if she were healing from something.

Liora didn’t feel like she was healing. She felt like she was unraveling quietly, thread by thread, so no one would notice until she was gone.

A faint knock at the door broke the silence.

Cecily walked in with soft steps, the heels of her shoes whispering against the linoleum floor. She was young, maybe late twenties. Too kind, too polished. Hair in a bun, silver earrings, a clipboard hugged to her chest like a shield.

“Good morning, dove,” she said gently.

Liora didn’t look up.

Cecily didn’t take it personally. She never did. She just crossed to the small table by the window, setting down a tray of food Liora wouldn’t touch.

Toast. Scrambled eggs. One orange slice.

“Let’s try a few bites today, alright? Even just one.”

Liora’s stomach curled at the thought.

Cecily lingered, pretending to tidy the already-perfect corner of the room. She glanced at the corner where the mirror used to be. Then she turned back to Liora.

“I brought you a book today. Something a little different—fairytales. You used to love those, didn’t you?”

Liora’s gaze flicked toward the window, where the glass was foggy despite the dry air. Something moved in it—just barely. A shimmer. Like heat rising off stone.

Cecily followed her gaze.

“Is something wrong?”

Liora’s voice was barely audible.

“I saw him again.”

Cecily went still.

Just for a breath.

Then she smiled. Warm. Rehearsed.

“You’re safe here,” she said, crouching beside the bed. “You remember what Dr. Graye said, don’t you? That your mind might still be sorting real memories from imagined ones?”

Liora nodded slowly.

But it didn’t feel imagined.

It felt remembered.

Liora didn’t speak again that day.

Cecily lingered longer than usual, tidying things that didn’t need tidying. She flipped through the fairytale book she’d brought, humming softly under her breath—some old lullaby Liora didn’t recognize.

She always did that, like she didn’t want silence to settle too long.

“I’ll come check on you before lights out,” Cecily said, standing. “Try to eat something. Just a little, sweetheart.”

When she left, the room was too still again.

Too quiet.

Liora didn’t eat. She didn’t move. She just watched the window across from her bed—the one with the safety mesh running through the glass like veins.

There.

A flicker. Again.

It wasn’t a reflection exactly. More like a shift in light, a dark shape in the edge of her vision. And when she turned her head to face it—gone.

But her skin still prickled.

And her palms? Sweating.

She glanced down and wiped them on the thin blanket. The tremble in her fingers had started days ago. It came and went. Her blood tests were normal. Heart rate—normal. Sleep schedule—monitored but “stable.”

But none of those machines could measure the way her spine tightened when the presence was near.

She rose from the bed slowly, legs stiff, like her body had to remember how to hold her. Each step toward the window felt deliberate. Heavy.

The reflection was faint.

Not enough light in the room to see much.

But her outline was there. And something else—taller. Broader. Just behind her.

She didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

The outline didn’t move. It didn’t shift like shadows did. It waited.

She leaned in closer. Her fingertips hovered near the glass, not touching.

Her own breath fogged it faintly—and when it cleared…

Nothing.

Just her again. Pale. Hollow-eyed.

She exhaled, a slow, shaky breath. Then turned back toward her bed—

—and stopped.

There was a handprint on the window.

High. Larger than hers. Fingers spread.

Her own hands were clenched at her sides.

She hadn’t touched the glass.

Her throat closed around the scream. It didn’t come out. It only stayed there, lodged like a stone. Her knees weakened, but she didn’t fall. She backed up slowly, eyes locked on the print.

And then the lights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

A buzzing noise overhead.

She dropped to the floor, hugging her knees tight to her chest, fingers clutching the hospital gown like it could protect her from something ancient and impossible.

When the door finally opened again, she was still there. Silent. Shaking.

“Liora?”

Cecily’s voice again—too bright, too cheerful.

“Liora, honey, are you alright?”

She looked up, but didn’t answer.

Cecily followed her gaze to the window, to the faint print that had already begun to fade.

⸻

Back in her bed, hours later, the room now dim and empty again, Liora lay awake long after lights out.

Her mind replayed the moment over and over. The hand. The waiting.

She didn’t feel afraid exactly.

She felt watched.

She didn’t tell Cecily about the hand. She didn’t tell anyone.

She just pulled the blanket up to her chin and stared at the corner where the mirror used to hang.

And for the first time… she felt lonely for someone she couldn’t remember.

That night, she didn’t want to close her eyes.

Liora lay stiff under the thin blanket, eyes fixed on the ceiling tiles overhead. They formed neat, perfect squares—white and endless, like a sky that never changed. The hum of the fluorescent lights had faded into the quiet groan of night. But her body was tense. Her mind, louder.

She rolled to her side, facing the far wall where the mirror used to be. It wasn’t there. But it felt like it was. Like her body remembered the weight of eyes watching her from that corner.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Sleep came slowly, heavy as fog, sinking into her limbs until she couldn’t tell where she ended and the darkness began.

⸻

She was standing in a room made of mirrors.

Not glass—but reflections. Infinite, shimmering layers. Her bare feet touched stone that shimmered underfoot. The air tasted like ash and something sweeter beneath it—sandalwood, maybe. The scent curled around her like memory.

Everything was quiet. Except the breath.

Not hers.

A slow, steady exhale behind her.

She turned.

He stood across from her—barely a few paces away. His eyes, luminous and cold, locked onto hers. He wasn’t just looking. He was remembering her. Drinking her in like the sight of her hurt.

Her breath caught.

He stepped forward. His presence was too large for the space. He wasn’t touching her, but she felt the heat radiating from him. It moved through the air like gravity.

“Do you still see me?”

The voice landed deep in her ribs. Not a whisper. Not loud. Just… inside her.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

He took another step. Their reflections multiplied around them—her small frame facing his towering figure, dozens of times over, echoing through the glass.

His hand lifted—just slightly. Like he didn’t want to startle her.

“They tried to make you forget,” he said, softer now. “But your body remembers me.”

He was close enough now that she could see the faint glow under his skin. Like veins lit from within. Silver threads beneath marble.

She reached for him.

Their fingers met—

But instead of skin, she felt a pull, like her hand was falling into water. Not touching him, but the space he existed in.

“What are you?” she whispered.

Auren didn’t answer. Not with words.

He pressed his forehead to hers.

And the moment they touched, her body lit up with something she couldn’t name.

Not pain.

Not pleasure.

Something deeper.

Like recognition.

And then—

The floor shattered beneath her.

Mirrors cracked. Light exploded.

⸻

She gasped awake.

Back in the hospital bed, cold sweat soaking the collar of her gown. Her chest heaved. She looked around—walls. Window. Silence.

No mirrors.

But her hand—

She lifted it. Her fingertips were warm. Tingling. Like they’d touched something real.

And on the wall across the room…

There was a faint shimmer.

Just for a second.

And then it was gone.

The next morning, Liora didn’t speak.

Not to Cecily. Not to the other nurse who brought her medication. She sat at the small table near the window, her body there but her mind drifting—somewhere between the hospital and that impossible room of mirrors.

She could still feel his forehead against hers.

Could still smell the smoke in his breath.

Could still hear that voice.

“Do you still see me?”

Not do you remember me.

Not who am I.

He’d asked as if she’d seen him before. As if she was the one who had turned away.

Why did that scare her more than anything?

She pressed her fingertips against her temple. They tingled—like they had the night before. A phantom touch.

Cecily hovered at the doorway for a moment. Watching.

“You had a nightmare,” she said softly, sitting across from her. “You were screaming in your sleep, sweetheart. Do you remember?”

Liora didn’t answer.

Cecily sighed. She set a small sketchpad on the table. A piece of charcoal beside it.

“Maybe try drawing instead today,” she offered. “It helps sometimes.”

Liora didn’t move at first.

But later, when the room was quiet and the sun had turned the window gold, she picked up the charcoal and began to move her hand slowly across the page.

She wasn’t thinking. Just tracing something her fingers already knew.

By the time she looked down, there were eyes. Deep. Luminous. Too human, and yet not. And beside them, a woman with her hands pressed to glass, face twisted—not in fear.

In grief.

She blinked.

Her fingers had drawn her. Her expression. And his eyes behind her, watching.

She slammed the sketchbook shut. Her breath hitched. She glanced at the corner of the room—again, nothing.

But that ache returned. Low in her ribs.

⸻

Later that afternoon, she was called to Dr. Elias Graye’s office.

The walls were darker than the others in the facility—muted navy and deep wood panels. A single lamp illuminated the room. Bookshelves lined with ancient volumes. A heavy clock ticking steadily.

Elias sat behind a desk too large for one person. He smiled with his mouth, but not with his eyes.

“Liora,” he said smoothly, motioning for her to sit. “I heard about the episode last night.”

She sat. Stiff. Silent.

He didn’t mind. He liked the sound of his own voice.

“Cecily says you’re drawing again. That’s good. Very good.”

She stared past him—at the mirror behind his desk. It wasn’t like the others. It was antique. Ornate. Its surface darkened around the edges like it had seen too much.

Her heart fluttered.

She could feel Auren in it. Not see him. Just… feel him. Like standing too close to lightning.

“You’re making progress,” Elias said, steepling his fingers. “But the hallucinations… we can’t ignore those.”

She didn’t speak.

Elias leaned forward. His eyes were soft. But his voice—

“Liora, you know what happens when patients slip back, don’t you?”

Her throat tightened.

He smiled again, that small, soulless smile.

“We’d hate to start over.”

⸻

That night, she dreamed again.

She was in the mirror room.

This time, she was alone.

No Auren. No footsteps. Only cold.

She touched the glass walls, trying to call him back. Her reflection looked older somehow. Tired.

Then—

A voice, deep and ancient.

“Why did you leave me there?”

Liora turned—but saw herself in the mirror, whispering it. Not him.

Her own voice. Her own mouth.

“You said you loved me,” her reflection cried.

The mirrors cracked.

⸻

She woke up gasping.

The walls were pulsing—just faintly. Like a heartbeat.

And this time, in the mirror behind the medicine cabinet, she saw him.

Not all of him.

Just his mouth.

And it moved.

“Liora.”

Her name.

Soft. Ruined.

And suddenly she was sobbing, her hand pressed flat to the glass like it could reach him—touch him—take it back.

But she didn’t even know what she’d done.

Cecily found her that way. Curled against the mirror behind the medicine cabinet, her cheeks slick with tears, lips trembling as she whispered someone’s name—again and again.

“Who is Auren?” Cecily asked gently, kneeling beside her.

Liora flinched. Her mouth opened, but no words came. Just shallow gasps and wide, frightened eyes.

Cecily’s expression softened, but there was panic behind it.

“Liora, sweetheart, look at me. You’re okay. You’re okay. He’s not real.”

Liora shook her head violently.

“He is. He—he remembers me. He said my name—”

She choked mid-sentence.

Cecily grabbed a syringe from her pocket. The tranquilizer was already drawn. She hesitated—just for a second—but Liora saw the guilt in her eyes as she slid the needle in.

“I’m sorry, dove. I have to.”

Liora didn’t fight. The world blurred at the edges. Her pulse slowed, breath thinning like fog in winter air.

And just before the sedative pulled her under…

The mirror shimmered.

And a hand pressed against the glass. Broad, elegant. Veined with faint silver light.

Liora’s own hand lifted, weak but steady.

Her fingers reached.

Their palms aligned—

But they didn’t touch.

And in the moment between heartbeat and sleep, she heard it again.

“I never stopped watching you.”

She dreamed of drowning.

Not in water—but in light.

Silver. Blinding. Burning. And in that light, a man screamed—not in pain, but in betrayal. The sound made her bones ache. Her own voice followed his.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered in the dream, pressing her hands to a great glass wall.

“I had to.”

The humming stopped.

It didn’t fade—it snapped off mid-note, like someone had pressed a finger to a flame.

Liora looked up from the floor, her pulse stuttering. The hallway outside her room was quiet. Still. Too still.

She shifted on the bed, her bare feet brushing cold tile. Her room was never warm, but now the chill had bite. She swallowed hard. The mirror on the far wall was fogged at the edges, like breath had touched it from the inside.

That’s new.

She didn’t move toward it. Just stared. Watching it breathe.

A shape shifted behind the glass—slow, unhurried. Like whoever—or whatever—was inside had all the time in the world.

Her mouth went dry.

“Cecily?” she called out, though it barely left her throat. No answer.

“Is someone there?”

Still nothing.

But the mirror darkened. The lights above her flickered once, then steadied, casting a pale glow across the bed and her thin arms. Her reflection didn’t move. That’s when she knew it wasn’t her.

A man stood behind the glass. Tall. Dressed in black. Hands in his pockets. He tilted his head just slightly, eyes catching light that shouldn’t have reached him.

Gold.

Feral. Familiar.

Liora’s breath snagged in her chest.

She didn’t scream. She couldn’t.

Her body knew him before her mind remembered. Her hands trembled, her legs cold and stiff as stone.

“No,” she whispered, her voice breaking like glass.

He was smiling.

Not wide. Not cruel. Just… patient.

Like he’d waited years for this moment—and he had all the time in the world to savor it.

She backed away, slowly, one hand trailing along the bedframe for balance.

“You’re not real,” she whispered. “You’re not—this isn’t happening.”

The smile didn’t fade.

He stepped forward—but the mirror didn’t ripple or break. It held him. Contained him. And that somehow made it worse.

He looked like he belonged there.

Behind her, the air shifted. A breeze. A soft gust that smelled like metal and memory.

She turned quickly. Nothing.

When she looked back—the mirror was empty again.

Just her reflection. Pale. Wide-eyed.

Lost.

Outside her door, footsteps returned. Faster now. Cecily, probably. But Liora couldn’t move. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor, curling into herself like something shattered.

She didn’t cry.

She just kept whispering to the glass.

“Please… not again.”