The morning sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting thin lines of light across the cluttered desk in Ethan Vale's small apartment. Half-drunk mugs of coffee, stacks of journals, and crumpled pages of notes crowded the surface, the remnants of another sleepless night. Ethan sat hunched over his notebook, scribbling furiously, but the words seemed to evaporate as quickly as he wrote them.
The migraine had returned. A sharp, pulsating pain just behind his eyes. He shut the notebook and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
His thoughts were as fragmented as his dreams had been lately—dreams of endless corridors, mirrors that didn't reflect, and someone, something, watching him. He couldn't remember the details, only the sense of unease that lingered long after he woke.
The sound of the kettle boiling broke his trance. Ethan rose, wincing as the headache stabbed at his temples, and poured himself another cup of black coffee. He stared at the steam rising from the mug, losing himself in the swirling patterns.
Then it happened.
From the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Turning sharply, he faced the hallway mirror near the door.
Nothing.
He stepped closer, coffee forgotten on the counter. The mirror reflected him, of course—unruly dark hair, tired eyes, a five-o'clock shadow. But something was... wrong.
The reflection seemed a fraction slower, just enough to be noticeable. He raised his hand to test it, and sure enough, the reflection lagged for a heartbeat before mirroring the motion.
"Just tired," Ethan muttered to himself. "Just your brain playing tricks."
But the reflection's lips didn't move.
He froze.
A cold wave of dread swept over him as his reflection stared back, unblinking. Then, without warning, it smiled. A slow, deliberate curl of the lips.
Ethan stumbled backward, his breath caught in his throat. The mirror returned to normal instantly. His reflection now mirrored his wide-eyed panic, lips parted as though gasping for air.
A sharp knock on the door shattered the silence, making him jump. He turned toward it, his pulse pounding in his ears.
The knocking came again, louder this time.
Ethan hesitated. Something felt off. He approached the door slowly, his hand hovering over the doorknob. "Who is it?" he called out, his voice trembling slightly.
No answer.
Just as he was about to turn away, a voice—his voice—came from the other side of the door.
"Ethan. Open up."
His hand dropped to his side.
The voice was calm, almost familiar, but laced with something he couldn't place. He took a step back.
"Ethan," the voice repeated, firmer now. "You're not going crazy. Let me in."
His mind raced. How could someone sound exactly like him? His own voice, but... wrong, somehow.
He backed away from the door entirely, his heart hammering in his chest. "Leave me alone!" he shouted, grabbing his phone from the counter.
The knocking stopped.
For a moment, there was only silence. Ethan waited, his eyes darting between the door and the mirror. Then he heard it: soft, retreating footsteps on the other side.
He stood there for what felt like hours, staring at the door, waiting for something—anything—to happen. But the only sound was the faint hum of the city outside.
When he finally turned back to the mirror, the reflection was normal again. But Ethan wasn't comforted. He knew, deep down, that something had just changed.
The cracks in his reality had started to show.