Ethan Gray stirred awake just moments before his alarm rang.

  The dull light of early morning spilled across his small bedroom in streaks filtered through half-drawn blinds. Everything was where he had left it the night before—textbooks stacked on the desk, a half-drunk coffee on the windowsill, a worn hoodie slung over his chair, and that damned mirror above the dresser.

  The mirror.

  He hated it now.

  It wasn’t broken or cursed or ancient. It was just... honest. Too honest.

  It showed him his narrow shoulders. His pale skin. The way his ribs peeked slightly beneath his shirt when he turned sideways. And those tired, sunken eyes that looked like they hadn’t seen peace in years. He hadn’t slept properly in weeks, and it showed.

  He avoided mirrors more and more these days—not because he feared what was inside them, but because he couldn’t stand the way he looked. The reflection didn't lie. It simply stared back at him with the same expression every time: hollow, drained, and quietly disappointed.

  He sat up slowly, exhaling through his nose. A cold draft slipped in from the cracked window behind him. He glanced at the mirror, just to confirm it wasn’t doing anything strange again.

  His reflection mimicked him, of course. But the discomfort lingered.

  Sometimes it moved a little too fast. Sometimes its gaze felt just slightly off-center. And sometimes—only sometimes—it smiled when he wasn’t.

  He blinked and looked away.

  He had a psychology exam to focus on, and his brain already felt like it was dipped in syrup. Sleep-deprived fog clung to him like static.

  By 8:15 a.m., Ethan was dressed and heading out the door. The hallway of his apartment building in downtown Greyford was silent except for the muffled sounds of city life pushing in through the cracks. The kind of quiet that made you question if you’d locked the door behind you.

  He stepped outside and into the crisp autumn morning, hoodie zipped up to his chin. Greyford always had that October bite in the air—sharp and metallic, like breathing in steel. The sky was overcast, casting everything in tones of silver and blue.

  Ethan moved with the crowd of early risers toward the subway, earbuds in, music low.

  He needed to focus. He had studied all week. His test should be the only thing on his mind.

  But it wasn’t.

  It was the whisper.

  ..................................................................

  The exam ended an hour later.

  Ethan handed in his paper without speaking a word. As he stepped out of Lecture Hall 3 and into the wide corridor, a blast of cool air came in through an open window. It made him shiver, but not from the cold.

  He rubbed his arms as he walked, his thoughts nowhere near the test.

  He hadn’t even read the final question.

  His mind was still in his apartment. Still staring into that mirror. Still seeing that twitch of movement that wasn’t his. That whisper—silent but unmistakable. It played in his memory like a record needle stuck on one unsettling note.

  Was he losing it?

  He ducked into the nearest bathroom, gripping the sides of the sink with trembling fingers. For a while, he didn’t look up. He focused on the sound of the dripping tap, the thrum of campus life outside, the breathing he had to remind himself to control.

  Then, cautiously, he raised his head to the mirror.

  There he was again.

  That same narrow frame. Sharp collarbones pressing through fabric. A hoodie that looked too big on him, as if he were shrinking day by day. Pale skin. Eyes rimmed with shadows from another sleepless night.

  And then... just for a second... the reflection tilted its head. Barely. Subtly.

  But Ethan hadn’t moved.

  He swallowed hard, then reached for the cold tap and splashed water on his face. The droplets clung to his skin like static. He blinked again and stared.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  This time, the reflection behaved.

  But the doubt had already sunk its claws in.

  He returned home just before sunset. The streets of Greyford were turning gold and gray in the fading light, the city skyline outlined like teeth biting into the sky. The air had cooled further, and Ethan felt it in his bones.

  The hallway in his apartment building was darker than usual. One of the lights was flickering above the stairwell, casting rhythmic shadows down the hall.

  His keys jingled as he unlocked the door, stepping into the silence of his apartment like it was a tomb. He turned on a lamp, and his eyes landed on the mirror across the room—propped above the dresser, catching the last slice of daylight before the blinds took over.

  He could’ve sworn he had covered it earlier.

  There was a throw blanket nearby on the floor. Had he taken it down? He didn’t remember.

  Or maybe he had.

  The thought came unbidden. Chilling.

  He approached the mirror slowly. Every step felt heavier, like walking underwater. The floor creaked beneath his weight—a strange contrast, given how little weight there was to carry.

  He hated how small he looked. How easily his shoulders curled inward, like they were trying to disappear. The mirror reminded him of that. Constantly.

  But this time… it was different.

  His reflection looked disappointed.

  Not angry. Not sinister.

  Just… disappointed. Like a teacher watching a failing student. Or worse—like someone who expected more.

  Ethan took a deep breath and reached forward, his hand hovering just above the glass.

  The surface shimmered.

  Not visibly. Not like water. But in his gut, in that place instincts lived, he felt it. Something just beneath the surface. A pulse. A ripple.

  He pulled back sharply, heart hammering.

  The mirror was still. The reflection unmoved.

  And yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was waiting for something.

  Hours passed.

  Ethan sat at his desk, hunched over his laptop. The screen was split between a half-written email to his professor and a cluster of open browser tabs: lucid dreaming, mirror hallucinations, sleep paralysis, psychosis symptoms. Every time he thought about closing them, something in his mind whispered: keep digging.

  The room was dim, lit only by the desk lamp. Shadows clung to the corners like mold, thick and unmoving.

  His phone buzzed once. A message from his classmate Mia.

  "How'd the exam go? You disappeared after class."

  He stared at it. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he couldn’t bring himself to reply. What would he say? That he was being haunted by his own reflection?

  Instead, he powered off the phone and tossed it aside.

  He glanced at the mirror again.

  Still.

  Still there.

  His reflection was sitting too—but something was off. Ethan shifted his arm slightly.

  The reflection was just a second behind.

  He froze.

  It caught up, almost imperceptibly, but he saw it.

  He knew he saw it.

  He stood, breathing unsteady. Every step toward the mirror made his skin crawl.

  It was like looking at a version of himself that no longer needed him to move first. Like it was practicing… being him.

  He reached for the throw blanket and draped it over the mirror again.

  Out of sight. Not out of mind.

  By 2:17 a.m., Ethan was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

  Sleep would come. It always did. No matter how afraid he was, no matter how much he wanted to stay awake, his body betrayed him.

  His eyes grew heavier. His mind floated in and out of thought. Images blurred—lecture slides, a flickering light, a ripple in the glass.

  And then—

  A voice.

  Not a sound. Not in the room.

  Inside.

  Inside him.

  A whisper without breath, without language, and yet it carried words he could understand:

  “You’re not awake.”

  Ethan jolted upright.

  But he wasn’t in bed.

  He was standing.

  On cracked cobblestone.

  The sky above was dark gray and roiling, heavy with slow-churning clouds. Buildings towered around him, twisted and leaning at impossible angles, their windows glowing faintly with sickly green light. The air smelled of damp stone, iron, and something older — like ashes soaked in wine.

  “What the hell…”

  He turned slowly.

  The world was quiet — not empty, but still. As if holding its breath.

  The clothes on his body weren’t his own. He was wearing a long, dark coat — heavy, lined with straps and loops he didn’t recognize. Beneath it, a shirt made of some textured fabric he didn’t know. Something pulsed faintly against his chest beneath the layers. A symbol burned there — circular, shifting slightly as if alive, woven into the fabric itself.

  He raised his hand.

  It was still his hand… but not. Thinner. Paler. Almost translucent.

  He took one slow step forward, then another.

  Reflections shimmered faintly in broken windows and oily puddles.

  One of them showed his room—his bed. And in it…

  Ethan.

  Sleeping.

  Or not.

  Eyes open. Smiling.

  His reflection was looking directly at him from the other world. From the other side.

  And then the smile widened.

  Its mouth moved.

  This time, he understood the words.

  “I’m home.”