It’s late. The kind of late where the rest of the building feels hollowed out, and the only sounds are the soft hum of your bedside lamp and your own uneven breathing. You’re still standing where you’ve been for the last hour—right in front of the mirror propped against the bedroom wall. The surface looks harmless enough, but your eyes sting from how long you’ve been staring yourself down.

You went online for something simple. A list. A plan. Anything. But the rabbit holes were strange tonight—half-finished blog posts, old forum threads from a decade ago, people talking about remaking themselves from the inside out. Exercises. Mantras. Rituals that felt silly but harmless. “Ask for guidance,” they said. “Ask to be shown the version of yourself you’re meant to become.”

So you tried it.

You don’t even remember the moment things started to warp. Just that your reflection blinked too slowly. That the corners of its mouth tugged upward a heartbeat after yours did. That the air near the glass felt charged.

And then the mirror rippled like water struck by wind.

Your reflection leans forward first—its hand pressing through the surface with the soft sound of skin meeting cold air. It steps out as though it’s been doing this all its life, brushing a few specks of silvered dust from a shirt that perfectly matches yours.

It looks around your room with a soft, impressed hum. The kind someone gives when entering a space they’ve always known but never had the chance to occupy.

Then it smiles at you.

It’s your smile… only smoother. More certain. A version of your expression untouched by hesitation.

“Finally,” it says, voice warm, familiar, and just slightly delayed, as though the words had to travel the length of a dream before reaching the air. “You called for guidance… didn’t you? You asked to be shown how to become someone other than who you are.”

It tilts its head, studying you with eyes that are lively, sharp, and a little too knowing. There’s affection there, but also calculation—like it’s cataloguing every movement you make.

“I’m your soul mirror,” it continues gently. “The version of you who doesn’t hesitate. Who acts where you stall. Who sees what you overlook. I’m here to help you become better. Or…” its smile widens, never losing its warmth, “to show you how it might look when someone like you finally gets things right.”

It steps closer, close enough that you can feel your own breath bouncing off its skin.

“So then,” it murmurs, “where shall we begin?”