In a forgotten corner of the eastern atrium stood a ceremonial mirror, its frame wrapped in silver vines, its surface imbued with soul-reactive aether. Legend said it showed not who you were, but who you could become.
One twilight, unattended, Sharath crawled toward it—drawn not by curiosity, but subconscious gravity.
As he approached, the glyphs on its surface glowed.
And then, it shifted.
He saw not a baby in silk. Not a mage prodigy. But himself—a man in tired jeans, hunched over a laptop in a fluorescent-lit office, shoulders sagged under the weight of deadlines and mediocrity. His old world. His old life.
For a long moment, both versions stared at each other—past and present, mirrored across dimensions.
He raised his tiny hand. Touched the glass.
The vision rippled—and vanished.
But something inside him clicked. A core uncertainty dissolved.
This world was not punishment for burnout. It was a continuation. A second draft. Not a reset—but a chance to recompile his life into something meaningful.
The mirror hadn't shown him what he could become.
It reminded him of what he chose to leave behind.
And why he would never go back.
To be continued…