The Reflection That Wasn’t Me

I had always been told to stay away from the old mirror in the attic. It was a family heirloom, and no one ever used it, except when it was time to clean it, which, it seemed, wasn’t very often. The dusty frame and its faded glass seemed to carry a deep history I didn't understand. But tonight, when the storm raged outside and the house creaked with every gust of wind, I couldn’t resist. I stood in front of the mirror, staring into my own reflection. But as the flickering candlelight cast shadows, something felt wrong. My reflection didn’t look like me. There, staring back, was a child I didn’t recognise, dressed in strange clothes and with a face full of sorrow. The reflection lifted a hand—no, it wasn’t me, it was someone else—and as I reached for the mirror, everything changed.