❝ Mirrors do not merely reflect reality… sometimes, they reflect what could have been. ❞

In a foggy alley of London, in the year 1863, between antique shops and midnight auctions, stood Sir Eliot Graven, gazing at a strangely shaped mirror. Its frame was made of charred wood, carved with symbols he had never seen before.

The old vendor muttered, — "Not for sale… except to the one who can hear it." He said this while staring into Eliot’s eyes, then handed him a key with trembling fingers.

That night, Eliot carried the mirror to his ancient stone manor and placed it in a forgotten room. He expected nothing… but at midnight, he heard a soft voice whisper: — "You came home late… as always." He looked around. No one. But the voice returned, warmer this time: — "You haven’t changed your haircut… you still neglect the left side."

He froze.

The voice knew him. No, it knew about him… things he’d never told anyone. Small details. Deep yearning.

In the days that followed, Eliot began sitting before the mirror like a man waiting for an unspoken promise.

She spoke to him every night. He never saw her face—only a faint glow and broken shadows—but she knew everything about him: his childhood, the battle where he lost his brother, the dream that never came true, and the passion he had buried within himself.

One night, in a broken voice, she said: — "You used to bring me flowers every morning from the garden, even though you hated flowers… You loved me."

He whispered back, — "Who are you? Why does my heart know you, though my eyes do not?"

She paused, then replied: — "I am your wife… in another world. There, you were mine. And here, I am a prisoner of mirrors."

Weeks passed, and he never gave up on her voice. He would stay up until dawn speaking with her, writing her poetry, reading her his favorite books, whispering secrets he had never shared with anyone.

Until… he began to see her—in dreams.

The first time, she stood before him in a light gray dress, her face unclear, but she was crying. The second time, she reached out her hand and whispered: — "Eliot… come."

On the final night, he asked her with a trembling voice: — "Can I come to you?"

She replied: — "But if you do… you will never return. This world will no longer be yours—nor your memories, nor your name."

He answered, brushing the dust from the mirror’s surface: — "And what is the worth of all that… if you’re not in it?"