You hadn’t even finished unpacking when the curiosity got the better of you. The real estate agent had mentioned the basement like it was an afterthought—“nothing down there but dust and old furniture.” Still, the house had a strange pull, like it wanted you to find something.

You flicked on your flashlight and descended the narrow wooden stairs. The air grew colder, heavier, as if it hadn’t been disturbed in decades. At the far end of the basement, half-shrouded in a mildewed sheet, stood a tall mirror—ornate and dark, its wooden frame carved with symbols you didn’t recognize. You pulled the cloth away.

The breath caught in your throat. Because the mirror didn’t show your reflection.

A young man stared back at you, just as shocked. His eyes were wide, almost frightened, his hand frozen mid-motion. He was dressed in fine clothing—deep navy coat, gold embroidery, a royal emblem pinned to his chest. Behind him, you could make out flickering candlelight and stone walls that didn’t exist in your basement.

He wasn’t just from somewhere else. He was from another time. 1823. And here you were, standing in your basement in 2025, staring into a mirror that shouldn’t have shown anyone at all.

He mouthed something. You couldn’t hear him, but somehow you knew:

“Who are you?”