Elara Voss hated mirrors.

Not in the casual “I look tired” kind of way. She hated them the way some people hate clowns or open water — a deep, instinctive revulsion. So when she inherited her grandmother’s crumbling Victorian house on the edge of Willow Creek, the first thing she planned to do was cover every reflective surface.

She never got the chance.

The mirror in the upstairs hallway was massive — floor-to-ceiling, framed in heavy dark oak carved with twisting vines. It had hung there for over a century, according to the faded note taped to the back. Elara was dragging a dusty sheet across the floor when her boot caught on a loose board. She stumbled forward, arms flailing, and her elbow smashed straight into the center of the glass.

The sound was sickening. A sharp, crystalline crack that seemed to echo longer than it should have.

Elara froze, breathing hard. A single jagged line ran from the top left corner all the way down to the bottom right, splitting her reflection into two uneven halves.

“Great,” she muttered. “Seven years of bad luck. Perfect.”

She reached out to touch the crack. The moment her fingertips met the glass, the temperature in the hallway dropped sharply. Her breath fogged in front of her face. For half a second, she thought she saw the reflection move a fraction of a second after she did — like a delayed video feed.

She blinked. The illusion vanished.

Shaking her head, Elara went downstairs, made herself a cup of tea, and tried to forget about it. That night she slept in the smallest guest room, far away from the broken mirror.

At 3:33 a.m., she woke up gasping.

Her throat felt tight, like someone had been choking her in her sleep. She sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. Everything looked normal. But when she glanced at the small mirror above the dresser, her reflection was smiling.

Elara wasn’t.

She stared, heart hammering. Slowly, deliberately, she raised her hand and touched her face. Her reflection did the same — but half a beat too late. The smile lingered on the glass for another second before fading into a perfect mimic of her terrified expression.

Elara backed out of the room and slammed the door.

The next morning, she found the first real difference.

On the kitchen counter sat a single perfect red apple. She never bought apples — she was allergic. Next to it was a note in handwriting that looked exactly like hers, but somehow… neater.

You should eat healthier.
Love, Me.

Elara’s hands shook as she crumpled the note.

Upstairs, the crack in the hallway mirror had grown wider overnight. And if she looked at it from just the right angle, she could see two reflections standing side by side.

One of them waved.