His body, this physical anchor he hasn't asked for, still feel alien, yet it is unquestionably him. He cautiously raised a hand, the skin pale and unfamiliar. It tremble slightly. He stretch it out towards the mirror's surface.
As his fingertips near the pulsating gold, the patterns intensified, swirling faster directly beneath his hand. The air grew warmer, charged with an almost palpable anticipation. Hesitantly, he made contact.
It isn't cold or hard as he's expected. It feel… soft, yielding, like touching liquid light. A wave of warmth spread from his fingertips, up his arm, and into his chest, settling in the region of his heart. It isn't unpleasant, but it is powerful, a deep, resonant vibration that seemed to echo something within him.
Suddenly, the golden patterns on the mirror's surface doesn't just swirl; they coalesced, forming images. Not external views, but internal ones. Fragment, fleeting glimpses, shimmering on the surface like reflections on disturbed water.
They are… memories? But not the kind he expected. Not chronological events. They are feelings. Impressions. Moments, stripped down to their emotional core. A sense of deep longing. A flash of searing regret. The weight of unspoken words. The warmth of fleeting joy. The coldness of isolation.
These aren't things he has consciously held onto as a drifting consciousness. They are buried deep, below the surface of awareness. They feel intensely personal, undeniably his. But they are confusing, disconnected.
He press his whole hand against the surface, leaning closer. The mirror deepened, becoming less a surface and more a window into a golden infinite. The images solidified, becoming clearer, weaving together into narratives.
He see, or rather feel and understand, moments from the life he has lived before. The frantic rush of his days, always looking forward, always chasing the next deadline, the next achievement, the next step. The Guardian's words echoed: "And I forwarded l." Yes, that was it. He has spent his life constantly forwarding himself, projecting into the future, rarely looking back, rarely observing the present, rarely truly seeing. Even in death, his initial state is just moving forward without seeing or observing.
The mirror showed him the relationships he has been in, not as a list of names, but as the emotional currents that flowed – or failed to flow – between himself and others. The moments he has been present, truly connected, are bright sparks in the golden tapestry. The moments he has been distant, distracted, lost in his own 'forward' momentum, are shadowed gaps, places where connection has withered.
It showed his his regrets. The words unsaid, the opportunities missed not for lack of foresight, but for lack of presence. The times he has looked past someone he should have looked at. The mirror isn't just showing him his life; it is showing him the impact of his chosen mode of existence – the relentless forwarding.
Is this the 'Mirror of Reflection'? Not just reflecting an image, but reflecting back the ignored parts of himself, the consequences of his actions and inactions, the truth of his being beyond the constant striving?
The weight in his chest grew, not from physical exertion now, but from the sheer emotional density radiating from the mirror. It is overwhelming, seeing himself laid bare like this. Every self-deception, every rationalization, every moment he has convinced myself I was too busy looking ahead to look around – it is all there, translated into the language of pure feeling and consequence.
His body trembled violently now, not from fatigue, but from the raw vulnerability. It is painful, this forced introspection, this inability to look away or simply 'forward' past the uncomfortable truths.
And then, amidst the storm of self-revelation, a quieter set of images began to form. Moments of genuine kindness. Acts of unexpected compassion. Times he has, against his nature, paused to truly be with someone or something. These moments glowed with an intense, pure light within the golden expanse of the mirror. They are fewer than the shadows, but they are undeniably real. They are the parts of him that hasn't been entirely consumed by the forward drive.
The mirror seemed to be asking him, without words: Is this who you were? Is this who you want to be? What did you miss by only looking forward?
The missing word. It isn't just reflection. It is deeper. It is... Self. The Mirror of Self. It doesn't show him a past life to relive (reincarnation) or escape, but the truth of the self that lived that life. It is holding up the very core of his being, stripped of the narrative he has clung to, inviting him to finally see himself.
"Mirror of Self," he whispered, the words feeling heavy and profound on his tongue in this body that has returned without warning.
The Guardian's smile. It isn't manic glee; it is knowing. Garudian knew he han't heard, or couldn't comprehend, the word until he stand here. Guardian know that simply being told wouldn't be enough. He has to experience it. And perhaps, he knew that his inherent tendency to just 'forward' and his refusal to look back at the reincarnation vortex would inevitably lead him here, to the one place that would force him to finally look inward.
His breath hitched. "You had listen carefully." Guardian said he has listened carefully, even though he hasn't heard the word. Maybe listening carefully isn't about the ears. Maybe it is about the soul, the intention. His intention, even in choosing blindly, is not to repeat the cycle without understanding. It is a chaotic, frustrated choice, but perhaps deeply rooted in a desire for something more than just a reset.
The images in the mirror began to shift again, becoming less about the past and more about... potential? They are hazy, uncertain futures, predicated on the truths the mirror has just revealed. Futures where he was present. Futures where he connected. Futures where he doesn't just forward, but lived. They aren't guarantees, just possibilities, shimmering in the golden depths.
The mirror wasn't just showing him the truth of who he is; it is presenting a choice based on that truth. The reincarnation vortex offered a chance to forget and start anew, maybe doing better, maybe repeating the same mistakes. This mirror offered a path forward with the truth, carrying the weight and the light of who he has been, and using it to forge who he could become.
The intensity of the mirror's energy grew, pulling at him. It isn't a physical pull, but a tug on the consciousness within this suddenly tiring form. It feel like being gently drawn into a deep, warm current. His body feel heavy, rooted, but his inner being feel lighter, more defined, now that the ignored truths are brought to light.
The golden designs on the mirror's surface began to swirl together, opening up a pathway within the light. It isn't a solid path, but a shimmering void of pure gold, beckoning him forward. This is the next step. No longer just observing the mirror, but entering it.
Fear clawed at his throat. What is on the other side of the Mirror of Self? More truth? A new existence shaped by the truth? Was the body meant to come with me, or would I shed it again as I stepped into the light?
But there is no other way. The reincarnation path is gone. The vast expanse behind him offered nothing but the empty space he has trudged through. The only way forward is into the golden path opening within the mirror.
He took a deep breath, the air here thick with the scent of possibility and the weight of self-knowledge. His heart hammered against his ribs. This body, for all its unexpected presence and frustrating limitations, feel strangely ready. It has endured the arduous, meaningless journey, the forced physical presence, perhaps specifically to bring me to this point, in a state where he could finally feel the impact of the Mirror of Self, not just observe it as a disembodied consciousness.