Chapter Five: The Cracked Reflection
Elias woke to a quiet that felt heavier than before. The dawn light seeped through the curtains in fragmented beams, as if even the sun hesitated to enter his apartment. He lay motionless for a moment, listening for any hint of movement beyond the walls: a creaking floorboard, a distant footstep—anything to confirm he was still anchored in reality. But all was still. The hush pressed upon him like damp cloth.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. His body ached from restless nights, and his mind felt raw. Reaching out, he touched the small mirror on his nightstand—an ordinary piece, cracked slightly at one corner since a week ago. The crack had seemed trivial at first: a hairline fracture, barely noticeable. Yet over the past days, he had sensed it widening, both in the glass and within himself. He stared at his reflection: pale eyes beneath dark circles, hair unkempt. The crack ran through the edge of his image, distorting a sliver of his cheek. He wondered: was this mirror breaking, or was it revealing something fractured in him?
Rising, he dressed in silence. Every reflective surface he passed seemed tainted. In the bathroom, he paused before the mirror. A thin fissure had spread since last night. He traced it with his fingertip, feeling an odd warmth around the crack. He washed his face, and when he looked again, for a heartbeat the reflection flickered: his own eyes briefly held a glint not entirely his—an echo of some other presence. He recoiled, heart pounding, and the image returned to normal. Yet he could not forget that moment; the mirror had shown him more than his face.
Downstairs, he prepared coffee, but his hands trembled. Steam rose in pale spirals, as if whispering secrets. He sipped, tasting bitterness deeper than the roast. Thoughts of yesterday's meeting with his father swirled in his mind: the revelation of his mother's secret rites, the warning that the mirror's influence was spreading beyond that room. He tried to steady himself: today, he promised, he would observe carefully, resist panic, and document every crack and vision. But as he left the apartment, he noticed the building's lobby mirror bore a new fracture—a jagged line slicing across the reflective surface where none had existed before. He stopped cold, breath caught: had it been there when he entered last time? He had no memory. The line seemed fresh, as though drawn by unseen hand. He pressed a palm against it; the crack felt warm, almost pulsing. Startled, he withdrew and hurried out, coffee forgotten.
On the street, sunlight struggled against low clouds. Reflections glimmered in shop windows. Elias passed a storefront display and froze: the glass showed him with a diagonal fissure crossing his eyes. Yet when he looked closer, the actual window was intact. His heart stuttered. He shook his head, forcing disbelief: maybe a trick of light, his imagination playing cruel games. He moved on, but every reflective surface now held the possibility of a crack: the polished hood of a parked car, the water in a puddle, the polished handle of a door. He caught his own face in a tinted bus window; there, too, a fracture ran across the image like a scar. He wondered if the world around him was warping, or if his perception was unraveling.
At work, he avoided mirrors and reflective screens. Even the computer monitor felt threatening. He lowered brightness, wore a matte jacket to conceal any gleam. Colleagues noticed his distraction—he nodded in greeting but could not focus. During a meeting, he absentmindedly glanced at the glass tabletop; another crack: a new, spider-web pattern radiating from the old fissure. He recoiled in his mind, seeing it only in reflection, yet convinced it was real. His pulse hammered as he excused himself: a sudden migraine, he said, retreating to the restroom.
Inside the stall, he leaned against the door, breathing hard. He stared at the mirror above the sink. Indeed, a crack: faint but present, like a whisper scratched into the surface. He pressed a finger against it, feeling the same strange warmth. His reflection shivered, and he saw not only himself but a shadow moving behind him in the reflection—though behind him sat only empty stall wall. He whirled around; no one. Returning his gaze to the mirror, he saw his reflection as if watching his back: tense shoulders, eyes wide with alarm. He splashed cold water and forced himself to look away.
He returned to his desk, unsettled. The hum of office life felt distant, as though muffled by glass. He tried to work, but every glance at his phone's screen made him flinch: the slightest scratch or smudge he perceived as a crack. He deleted emails, closed documents, seeking refuge in silence. Time dragged. He wondered: Is this real? Is the mirror's power seeping into every reflective surface? Or is he fracturing, mind splintering under the weight of secrets he unearthed?
By afternoon, he resolved to test his fear. On his lunch break, he visited a shop selling small mirrors and frames. He selected a handheld mirror, inspected it thoroughly: pristine, unblemished. He brought it home, determined to observe carefully. Back in his apartment, he set the new mirror on the table and stared. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, as he leaned closer, a slender hairline fracture appeared across the glass, faint at first, then widening imperceptibly. He reached out; the surface felt warm. A low voice echoed in his mind: The reflection cracks when truth demands release. He jerked back, heart racing. The mirror lay before him, silently broken.
Night approached, and with it, the pressure of the unseen. He prepared dinner mechanically, chopping vegetables while glancing at the kitchen's reflective surfaces: the polished faucet, the pot lids, the windowpane by the sink. Each held a crack now, subtle but present. He covered them with cloths where possible, but the fear seeped deeper: perhaps no surface would remain pure; perhaps the very idea of reflection was tainted. He ate in near-darkness, candlelight flickering, shadows dancing with unseen fractures.
Later, he sat alone in the living room, candle on the table, the broken handheld mirror propped before him. He opened his journal and wrote:
"Day of endless cracks. Every surface reflects my fear. The fissures spread like veins, mapping memories I cannot deny. Reality feels thin—like a pane poised to shatter."He paused, pen hovering: What does the mirror want? He closed the journal. A sudden chill alerted him: the large mirror in the hallway appeared in the candlelight, though he had covered it days ago. The cloth was drawn aside, revealing a surface scarred by new lines. He rose slowly. Approaching, he noticed in the reflection not only himself but figures behind him: fleeting shapes at the edge of vision, impossible silhouettes shifting like smoke. He spun; empty hallway. Returning gaze to the mirror, he saw the cracks pattern into symbols he did not recognize, as though writing: Seek the shard that holds the key. His throat tightened. He backed away, realizing tonight would not pass without another confrontation.
Uncertain but compelled, he fetched a shard from the pile of broken glass he had collected: pieces from mirrors replaced by his father, fragments from the apartment's mirrors. He held one shard up to the hallway mirror, aligning it so that the fracture in the shard met the crack pattern. Instantly, the glass seemed to pulse. In the reflection, the hallway behind him dissolved into darkness, and he glimpsed his mother's face—pale, sorrowful—her eyes beckoning. He staggered, dropping the shard; the vision vanished, leaving only the fractured mirror behind.
He sank to the floor, breathing raggedly. A whisper, barely audible: "Shatter lies to reveal truth." He pressed a hand against his chest, feeling his heartbeat wild. The candle guttered; darkness pressed in. He realized the fissures were more than physical breaks—they were invitations and warnings. Each crack offered a path deeper into memory, but at the cost of his certainty.
He decided he needed help—or at least an anchor. He considered calling his friend Sara, someone he trusted, though she knew nothing of the mirror. But when he reached for his phone, he hesitated: what if the reflection in the screen cracked and revealed something he could not unsee? He set it down. Solitude seemed safer, yet loneliness amplified his dread.
Hours passed. Midnight approached. He sat before the hallway mirror again, watching the cracks shift in dim light. The glass trembled, and he heard distant echoes: children's laughter twisting into sobs, his own voice pleading. He closed his eyes, trying to block the visions, but the tears came unbidden. When he opened them, the mirror had changed: in the shattered patterns, he read words forming: "Prepare for the ritual." He recoiled, the phrase reverberating in his mind: ritual—what ritual? The one hinted by the mysterious contact? As the cracks rearranged themselves like living script, he felt the pull toward something inevitable.
He covered the mirror hastily and retreated to his room, heart pounding with equal measures fear and resolution. He lit a single lamp, its light small against engulfing darkness. He sat at his desk and wrote once more:
"The cracks are truth's toll. If I follow them, I risk losing myself; if I ignore them, I betray what I must uncover. Tomorrow, I must decide: pursue the ritual or flee the mirror's call."
He folded the page and placed it beneath his pillow. His mind spun with fragmented images: mother's pleading eyes, the silent child, the inscrutable symbols in the glass. Sleep came fitfully, invaded by dreams where reflections split him in two, urging him onward.
Before dawn, he awoke with a start: the whispered promise of answers and the silent threat of oblivion. The mirror's influence had spread beyond the glass: it had spread into his thoughts, his very being. Yet amidst dread, a flicker of determination glowed: he would face the cracks, follow the reflections into whatever ritual awaited. For only by confronting the shattered truth could he hope to understand—and perhaps redeem—the past that bound him.
Tonight, the mirror would not wait. And neither would he.