Mortimer waited at the edge of the bathroom, where the steam from a long shower still lingered like a fog. The mirror above the sink was streaked with condensation, but the girl standing before it kept wiping it clean with the palm of her hand, over and over, as though the glass might suddenly reveal something new.
Her name was Claire, sixteen years old, and her reflection was her fiercest critic.
Mortimer folded his long coat around himself and sighed. He had seen this scene too many times across too many centuries: youth, beauty, and the endless war between what one saw in the glass and what one wished to see.
"You know," he said, his voice rumbling low like the settling of earth, "that mirror has never once told you the truth."
Claire jumped, clutching the sink. "Who—what—?"
"Mortimer," he said, stepping forward. His figure was tall, edges of shadow clinging to him, though his eyes glowed faintly with something softer than menace. "Your watcher, of sorts. Not here to hurt you. Only to warn."
Claire's knuckles whitened as she gripped the porcelain. "This is insane. I'm just… I'm just tired. I've been studying too much, that's all."
Mortimer tilted his head. "You've been staring too much. That's the real problem. Staring into that slab of silver and glass until it convinces you you're wrong, broken, unworthy. Mirrors lie, Claire. They always have."
She swallowed, her throat bobbing. "It's just a reflection."
"Just a reflection?" Mortimer chuckled, though without humor. "Do you know why certain old houses draped their mirrors when someone died? Or why some believed mirrors could steal a soul? Because a reflection isn't harmless. It is a distortion—a trap. Stand here long enough and you'll forget which version of you is real: the girl before the glass, or the girl behind it."
Claire tore her gaze from him, staring hard at her reflected face. "I'm ugly," she whispered.
Mortimer stepped closer. "There it is. The lie, sliding out smooth as poison. And you think it's your voice, but it isn't. It's the mirror's."
She shook her head violently, strands of damp hair whipping her cheeks. "No. I know what I see. Everyone else at school is prettier. They don't have skin like mine. They don't—"
"Enough." Mortimer's word cracked through the bathroom like a whip. Claire flinched, but he softened his tone. "Every time you measure yourself against the reflection, you bleed a little more of your spirit into it. Do you feel it? That exhaustion, that hollowness after each inspection? That's not vanity, Claire. That's sacrifice."
Her lips trembled. "Sacrifice?"
"Yes. You're feeding the mirror. It grows stronger with every doubt you offer it, every cruel thought. You're not fighting yourself—you're fighting it. A parasite of glass."
Claire finally turned fully toward him, eyes wide. "You're saying… the mirror is alive?"
Mortimer gave a small shrug. "Alive enough to wound you. Alive enough to twist what it shows. I've seen men of war crumble before a mirror's judgment. Queens and kings too, staring until they lost kingdoms chasing some illusion of flawlessness. You think your bathroom is safe? No, child. These slabs have teeth."
The silence after his words stretched long. The hum of the bathroom light seemed suddenly oppressive, the drip of a faucet loud as a drumbeat. Claire's eyes flicked nervously to her reflection again. For just a breath, she thought she saw it move a half-second too late, as if the glass girl lagged behind.
She stumbled back. "No. No, that's not—"
Mortimer caught her elbow, steadying her. "You see it now, don't you? How it twitches, how it lingers. It will show you whatever hurts the most. Some mornings it will swell your flaws; others, it will diminish you until you feel invisible. And always, it whispers: you are not enough."
Claire's voice cracked. "Then what am I supposed to do? I can't just… never look in a mirror again!"
Mortimer leaned closer, his presence heavy but protective. "You can look—but with suspicion. Understand the enemy. Glance, never linger. Trust the eyes of those who love you more than the echo of your outline. Trust the warmth in your skin when you laugh, the steadiness of your heartbeat when you run. Those things are true. The mirror knows nothing of them."
Her eyes filled, frustration burning in them. "But what if everyone else sees me the way I see myself?"
"Ah." Mortimer almost smiled, a weary twist of his mouth. "Another lie from the glass. It makes you believe its vision is universal. But do you know the truth? Every person who looks at you sees something different, colored by their own fears and hopes. There is no single, flawless image of you. You are a mosaic, Claire, shifting with every glance. Only the mirror claims to hold the one truth—and it lies."
Claire wiped her eyes on her sleeve. She glanced again at the fogged square above the sink. The girl inside seemed pale, shifty-eyed, almost hostile. She shivered.
"Smash it," Mortimer murmured.
Her head whipped toward him. "What?"
"If it tempts you too much, if you can't stop returning to its judgment, then break it. Scatter it into shards so it can no longer feed on you." His eyes narrowed. "Though be warned—sometimes, even shattered mirrors whisper from their pieces."
The thought made her stomach churn. "That sounds worse."
"Then leave it covered. Deny it your gaze. Remember: you are not at war with your own face. You are at war with the lies it tells."
For the first time that night, Claire took a deep, steadying breath. The truth—or at least Mortimer's version of it—felt like a weight had shifted off her chest. She didn't know if she fully believed him about sentient glass and whispering shards, but she knew this: every minute before the mirror made her feel smaller, meaner, more brittle. Maybe he was right. Maybe the real enemy wasn't her.
"Mirrors lie too," she whispered, testing the words on her tongue.
Mortimer inclined his head. "Now you understand."
The bathroom seemed colder, the steam thinning into nothing. Claire grabbed the towel hanging from the rack and draped it over the mirror. The room instantly felt lighter, as if a door had shut on something watching too closely.
Mortimer stepped back into the shadows, coat sweeping. "Good. Remember this night. Remember who the enemy is."
"Will you come back?" she asked.
"Only if you start believing the lies again." His voice was fading, like wind through dry leaves. "But I'd rather you fight them without me."
And then he was gone, leaving only the soft hum of the light and the muffled mirror beneath the towel.
Claire stared at the covered shape, her pulse still racing. She didn't know if Mortimer was a ghost, a hallucination, or something stranger. But she knew one thing: she would never look at her reflection the same way again