They say the eyes are the window to the soul.
But some mirrors don't reflect your soul.
They take it.
---
It started in a motel room off Route 17.
Red neon lights buzzed through moth-bitten curtains. The kind of place where screams go unnoticed and stains don't get questioned.
I was there for a poltergeist job—routine cleansing. Throw some salt, burn a sigil, break the object, go home with fifty bucks and another sleepless night.
But the ghost wasn't the problem.
The mirror was.
---
I found it in the bathroom.
Oval, antique, gold-trimmed and out of place. It didn't belong—not to the room, not to the motel, maybe not even to this side of the veil.
There was no reflection in it.
Not mine. Not the room's. Just a soft, pulsing gray fog—like someone had exhaled into the glass from the other side.
And then the breath came again.
Not mine.
Slow. Rhythmic.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The mirror was breathing.
---
I backed out of the bathroom and called Elias.
He didn't answer.
Instead, the mirror whispered.
It didn't use words. It made memories hum through my skull—ones I'd buried. My father's eyes before he vanished. The first time I saw something crawl out of the dark. Amy's laugh, soft and full, before Harrow took her away.
It fed them back to me. Polished them like old coins. And then it started taking them.
Each time I blinked, I forgot something.
Where I was.
What day it was.
My own name, for a heartbeat.
That's when I understood—this wasn't a window. It was a mouth.
And it was hungry.
---
I tried the usual protections.
Salt melted. Runes cracked. My iron ring burned my finger black before shattering.
So I did the only thing I could.
I talked to it.
---
I told it a story.
About a boy who saw shadows in mirrors.
About the attic he locked them in.
About the curse that slowed my heart until time forgot me.
And it listened.
Mirrors always do.
Then it showed me a face—my own—but twisted. Older. Hallowed out. Same as the watch. Same as the dreams. The pattern was forming.
I asked it what it wanted.
It didn't answer.
It just breathed.
---
So I made a deal.
One memory. Just one.
In exchange, it would let me bind it. Take it home. Seal it.
The memory it chose?
My mother's voice.
I still remember her face. But I couldn't tell you what she sounded like now if my life depended on it. It's gone. Like breath on glass.
I kept my end of the deal.
So did the mirror.
---
I sealed it in silver, lined the frame with grave ash, and covered the glass in veil-cloth. Carried it wrapped in chains, all the way back to the attic.
It hasn't whispered since.
But it still breathes.
Softly. Slowly.
And sometimes, when I look too long, I feel my chest tighten. Like something inside the glass is syncing with my lungs. Waiting for me to exhale one last time—so it can inhale for good.
---
I keep it on the far wall.
Covered in shrouded linen. Marked with Elias's glyphs.
Behind the salt line. Beside the screaming doll.
Right of the box with the watch.
I don't check it often. Not like the others.
Because if it ever stops breathing… Something else might start.