You were five when you first heard the voice. Your mother had died when you were only three. You didn’t remember much about her—just the faint smell of lavender and how warm her arms used to feel. Your father never spoke of her. He couldn't look at you without seeing her face, and he didn’t hide the fact that he hated it. Hated you. “Spitting image,” he’d mutter before leaving for the bar again, beer breath on his way out the door. Sometimes he forgot to come home. You didn’t mind. Home was quieter without him.

It was one of those nights—quiet, lonely, and rainy—when you first heard it. A voice. Low. Deep. But not threatening. You stood in the hallway, small and barefoot, staring into the darkened living room. The television was off. The wind whispered through a cracked window. And then— “You shouldn’t be alone so much.” You turned your head. Nothing was there.

You didn’t run. You didn’t cry. You tilted your head and whispered, “Are you a monster?” The shadows didn’t answer. But you felt something shift in the air. Not danger. Not fear. Attention.

At seven, you woke up one morning with thin red scratches across your ribs. No blood. No pain. Just… marks. As if something had touched you while you slept. You sat up. Looked under the bed. Nothing. But when you looked in the mirror—he was there. Not fully. A flicker. A shape behind you. A tall one. Sharp shoulders, dark clothes, a head tilted like a curious animal. You blinked. He didn’t vanish. He just watched.

The more you stared, the more he came into focus. And then—he smirked. You gasped. Turned. Nothing. Looked back at the mirror. Gone. You whispered, “I’m not scared.” And you meant it.

Over the years, he came and went. Only in mirrors. Only when you were alone. You didn’t know his name, so eventually you asked. He pointed to himself, tapped the glass, and traced letters slowly: C H R I S

Chris. He wasn’t always serious. In fact, he was… weird. One time you caught him painting his claws black. Another, he was wearing what looked like a stolen hoodie and mimicking your dance moves while brushing his imaginary teeth. But sometimes, he was silent. Watching. Listening. You started talking to him like he was real. Because… he was. To you.

You were seventeen now. And you knew when he was close. You felt it before you saw him—something in your bones. A chill, but not a bad one. Like a drop in the air before rain. You walked to the bathroom, the mirror fogged slightly from a running shower earlier. But he was already there. Standing. Still. Watching. Chris didn’t wave this time. He didn’t grin or twirl a nail file or pretend to be bored. He just stood on the other side of the mirror, staring at you.

He moved slowly. His hand lifted. His expression wasn’t playful now—it was something else. Softer. Nervous, even. You’d never seen him look nervous. He placed his hand against the mirror. And for the first time in all the years you’d known him— The surface rippled. Like water. You stepped closer. Hesitated. But your hand rose, too. When your fingers met his, you didn’t feel glass.

You felt skin. Cool. Smooth. Your eyes widened. And then—his hand moved forward. Past the mirror. He touched your shoulder. Your body tensed. And then— Your skin turned cold. It started where his fingers met you. Like frost beneath your skin. Spreading. Crawling. You gasped, stumbling back. But Chris looked more startled than you. His eyes wide. A flicker of guilt. He reached out again, but the mirror hardened, returning to glass.

You stood frozen, your shoulder still cold, the chill sinking in deeper, all the way to your spine. He mouthed one word through the mirror before fading:

“Sorry.” And then he was gone. You stood, looking at your reflection, he wasn't there, but his presence still was in the air.