Chapter Four: The Visit
Elias woke to a morning that felt no different from the night—heavy and unbroken, as if sleep itself had never arrived. All through the darkness, faint echoes of footsteps had haunted his corridors, as though the house itself had pursued him in dreams. His eyelids were leaden, yet he refused to surrender to rest; he sensed that a new phase had begun, and that he must confront what he had long delayed. He lifted his head slowly; a fleeting glance toward the small mirror in the corner of his room brought no comfort, for the reflection seemed to hide some secret gaze behind his own eyes. He exhaled, knowing that today would be unlike any before.
He rose and made his way toward the kitchen, craving a cup of coffee, but halted at the door of the mirror room. He recalled the scrap of paper on his pillow: "The glass sees backwards before it looks ahead." Hesitation gripped him. His hand brushed the doorknob lightly; the door seemed smaller than he remembered, or his vision blurred. He closed it quietly, avoiding the interior. Coffee would postpone the confrontation, but he knew it would come inevitably.
His hands found the edge of the table; his face was drawn and pale. A strange taste lingered in his mouth, as if something inside him had already shifted. He poured the coffee, cradling the cup between his fingers, watching the steam rise like sparks swallowed by fog. He recalled the promise he had made himself: "I will go to my father today. I must learn more about my mother's final days, the details of her descent." The memory of that image was hazy, but he felt his father must hold a vital piece of the truth.
He stepped into the street, the air chill and sky low. Morning light was muted, offering no bright hope. His heart hammered as he neared the neighborhood of his childhood: each corner summoned memories—olive trees in the small yard, his mother's laughter greeting dawn, the creak of the old wooden door he'd crossed countless times as a boy. Today, the door would open with the same familiar sound, yet the mood was wholly different. He rapped on the door; inside, hesitant footsteps approached. The door opened with a subdued creak and his father's weary voice intoned:
"You… Elias?"
His father's tone was guarded, as though bracing for a shock. Elias inclined his head: "Yes, Father. I need to talk."
He entered the living room, which felt narrower than he recalled. The wooden floor had been renewed over the years, but fine cracks on the walls reminded him of the house's age. His father sat in a chair by the window, pale face half-hidden in the dim light. He offered no warm greeting—just a raised eyebrow measuring the weight of his son's question. Elias steadied himself and spoke: "I want to know… what happened between you and my mother in her final years?"
Silence stretched, heavy as a shroud. His father toyed with his chin, as if gathering scattered thoughts. At last, in a low voice: "I don't know what you've heard, but your mother went through circumstances I never told you about." Elias felt a tremor inside: He never told me. He added softly, "But Father, you know more than you say." His father replied curtly, eyes not meeting his: "Don't shape your words to fit your own beliefs, son. Some questions bear no good answers."
Shock washed over Elias's expression: "Why? What were you hiding?" The silence deepened: "Your mother was involved in matters I did not foresee. I tried to protect her… but certain boundaries exceeded my ability." Elias held his breath, voice shaking: "What matters? I thought she was ill, or simply tired. What do you mean?" His father shook his head with sorrow: "You would be more shocked if you knew. But if you seek truth, is it not so?" Elias whispered, "Yes." His father gestured to the chair opposite: "Sit. But you must be ready for what I will tell you."
Elias sat slowly, feeling the floor tilt beneath him. He inhaled the scent of old wood and stale coffee on the table. His father appeared to retrieve a lost memory: "Years ago, when your mother was in search of something… something very strange. She did not confide in our family, but in a secret circle. I don't know how she found them or why, but she believed the mirror could show more than mere reflection. I thought she was hallucinating at first, so I sought help. But once I grasped the depth, I feared beyond measure." Elias pressed his lips together as if the words weighed heavily on his chest: "A secret circle? Is this superstition?" His father answered quietly: "No. Everything they did was far from mere superstition. I never imagined it would lead to sacrifice."
Elias recoiled slightly as if tainted by the confession: "Sacrifice? What sacrifice?" His father rose to recount darker truths: "Your mother joined a group that met in hidden places, exploring rites tied to glass and reflection. She wanted to understand something within herself, or to unleash a buried memory. She never explained the details to me, yet I noticed her behavior change: cryptic conversations, nocturnal obsessions, unexplained absences. I tried to stop her, but she refused. She claimed the path was dangerous yet necessary."
Elias leaned back, voice barely audible: "And you? How did you respond?" His father sighed: "I tried to distance her from it. I replaced the mirror in her room more than once, but the mirror always returned, as if drawn back by its own will. I could not protect her. I realized this was greater than me." Elias's voice broke: "Did she die because of that?" His father stammered: "Not directly. One night, I found her unconscious before the mirror, near broken glass and blood… but details were unclear. The hospital reported stroke or poisoning with no definitive cause. Yet I knew she'd been in a deep trance when they took her, and she lost something of herself—forever."
Elias sat stunned; the echo of those words spun in his mind like shattered glass. He recalled the vision in the mirror: the child in the corner, his mother's whispered plea, the bright rose behind a vanished room. His voice trembled: "I want the full truth. Half-measures aren't enough." His father met his gaze with regret: "Do you truly want all the facts? Some are perilous. I tried to shield you, but it seems the mirror's will now calls you. Perhaps you are the one who must face it." A cold shiver ran down Elias's spine: "Meaning?" His father said: "The mirror is not merely glass. It is a gateway—or a judge of truths we fear to face. Your mother's curiosity moved it; I tried to stop her, but she chose to continue. In the end, she paid the price."
His father fell silent, leaning back. The air was thick with tension; Elias's hand trembled on the chair's arm. He wondered: Was this the end, or the beginning of a deeper abyss? Finally, he spoke: "What must I do now?" His father's voice quavered: "That is your question, not mine. If you insist… you must see for yourself. You must return to the mirror and listen. But be cautious: what you find may not let you return unchanged." Their eyes met briefly in a farewell that felt both ominous and unresolved. Elias asked, "Any advice?" His father offered a bitter smile: "Stay close to yourself. And remember: truth often burdens the soul beyond endurance." Elias rose; his father's handshake was cool, then Elias left as he had arrived: heavy steps, the past trailing his stride.
That evening, Elias returned home, feeling the mirror's pull growing stronger. He passed by the closed door of his mother's room and hesitated. He did not open it at once but sensed his father's words echo: "Listen to it." Fear gripped him, yet resolve outweighed retreat. He sat in the dimly lit living room, aware that the night would bring even deeper reflections.
Before sleep, he wrote in a small journal:
"The past reveals itself when you dare to seek it, yet it may burn you if you are unprepared."
He set down the pen and watched the shadows on the wall, which curled into shapes that reminded him of unseen cracks within himself. He hesitated: Should he begin tomorrow? Or had the journey truly started from his first awakening? He realized at last that this chapter of his life had already commenced, and the mirror would soon summon him for the next confrontation.
In the hush of creeping darkness, it seemed as though something behind the glass smiled. The day had ended, but the true journey had begun, and all the mirrors around him bore witness to the echo of his coming steps.