There are no mirrors in the attic.
Mama said they're dangerous. She said they steal faces.
"Mirrors lie," she told me once. "They show you things you're not ready to see."
So I never had one.
But that day, as I moved my mattress to clean underneath (Mama said: Cleanliness keeps the bugs away), I found something smooth and cold.
A piece of broken glass.
Long and jagged.
I stared at it.
Not because it was sharp.
But because… it looked back at me.
The face I saw in the reflection wasn't mine.
It was older. Thinner. Eyes sunken. Hair longer.
It blinked a second too late.
I dropped the shard.
My breath caught in my throat.
"No," I whispered. "That's not me."
But something inside whispered back:
"Then who is it?"
Later, I opened the book again.
I had to.
It felt like the only thing telling the truth anymore.
Today's page said:
"He looked into the glass. He saw someone else. He's beginning to remember. It's happening faster now."
Remember what?What am I forgetting?
I curled up in the corner of the attic, holding the drawing of the tiger.
"Mr. Claws, tell me what's happening," I said.
But he just stared.
Paint doesn't talk. Not really.
That night, the knock came again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
But this time, it was louder. More certain.
I opened the hatch — just slightly — and peered down the staircase.
A flickering light danced along the wall.
And then…
A shadow moved at the bottom of the stairs.
It wasn't Mama.
It was tall.
And it was waiting.