Arlen set the letter down on the kitchen counter, staring at it as though it might suddenly reveal more secrets if he looked hard enough. The handwriting, precise and deliberate, seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light, almost as if it were alive. A faint chill ran through the apartment, though the radiator hissed warmly in the corner.
"Are you going to read it, or just stare?" Norman's voice broke the silence, calm but carrying an almost tangible weight.
Arlen jumped slightly, looking up. Norman had moved silently behind him, his presence unsettlingly close, yet not threatening. "I—I've read it," Arlen stammered. "But I don't understand it. Mirrors? Reflections?"
Norman leaned against the counter, fingers brushing lightly against the cool surface. "Mirrors are more than surfaces. They are gateways. They show what hides, what waits, and sometimes… what hunts."
Arlen shivered, unsure if Norman was being metaphorical or literal. His eyes flicked to the small mirror above the sink. For a moment, it reflected only him—messy hair, tired eyes, pale skin. But then the image shifted subtly: his mouth seemed to twitch, his eyes lingered too long, and a shadow behind him moved just slightly out of sync with reality.
"Did you see that?" Arlen whispered, voice trembling.
Norman's gaze followed the reflection, but his expression remained calm, almost amused. "Only what you allowed yourself to notice. That is the first lesson."
Arlen stepped closer to the mirror, heart pounding. "What does it mean? What am I supposed to see?"
Norman's eyes met his in the glass. "What you must see is not always what you expect. And sometimes the truth is inconvenient, uncomfortable… even dangerous. But it is necessary."
The apartment felt suddenly smaller, air heavier. Shadows stretched along the walls, bending unnaturally. Arlen's instincts screamed at him to leave, to escape, yet his curiosity held him fast.
"I don't understand… any of this," he admitted, voice low.
Norman pushed away from the counter, moving to the door. "You will. Soon enough. But understanding requires action, not fear." He gestured toward the jacket rack by the door. "Put this on. We have a destination."
Arlen hesitated, but the weight of Norman's presence left little room for argument. He picked up the jacket and slipped it on, feeling its fabric cool and unusually heavy. Something about it seemed… protective, though he couldn't explain why.
Outside, the car waited as silently as before. The streets of London glimmered faintly under the evening lights, puddles reflecting the faint neon of distant signs. Everything seemed normal, yet wrong. Too still. Too quiet. Arlen noticed details he had ignored countless times before—the faint hum of electricity in the streetlights, the way the wind seemed to ripple unnaturally through the trees.
"Where are we going?" he asked as he slid into the passenger seat.
Norman started the engine, a soft vibration under the dashboard. "Somewhere you need to see. Somewhere you will begin to understand."
The ride was quiet at first, tension building with each turn. Arlen's mind raced, replaying the words from the letter. Some truths can only be seen when the mirror reflects more than your face. What could it mean? What was Norman trying to show him?
As they drove, the city passed like a blurred painting. Arlen's reflection appeared in the dark window, pale and tense, eyes wide. And for the briefest moment, he thought he saw something behind him—a shadow, or a face, shifting in the darkness. He blinked, and it was gone.
Norman noticed. "Fear is a natural reaction," he said calmly. "But it should never control you. Look carefully. Notice what others ignore. The world bends for those who see."
Arlen's pulse quickened. He wanted to ask more, to demand explanations, but something in Norman's gaze stopped him. Not fear, not exactly. Respect, maybe. And an understanding that answers would come, but only in the right time and place.
The car turned down a quiet alley. Even in London, some streets felt untouched, removed from the daily rush. At the end of the alley, the shadows deepened unnaturally. Arlen noticed that the walls—brick and mortar he had seen hundreds of times—looked… different. The textures shifted under his eyes, edges misaligned, light bending strangely.
"This… this is still the city?" he asked, voice trembling.
Norman's eyes met his in the rearview mirror. "It is. But it is also not. Reality has layers, Arlen. Layers most cannot perceive. That is why mirrors matter. They reflect truth, not convenience."
The car slowed, coming to a stop in front of a building that should have been familiar. Yet as Arlen looked at it, something prickled in his mind. No numbers on the door. No mailbox names. Just blankness. The very identity of the building seemed erased.
Arlen swallowed hard. "No names… nothing."
Norman nodded once. "Do not fear what you cannot yet understand. Fear the refusal to see. That is far more dangerous."
Arlen's hands tightened on his lap, knuckles white. The air felt thick, charged with something intangible. Shadows flickered where no light should fall, and the faintest whisper brushed his ear, just beyond comprehension.
Norman opened the door for him. "Step inside, and see the first layer of truth. But remember, what you see may change you forever."
With trembling legs, Arlen stepped out of the car. Every instinct screamed to run, but curiosity held him rooted. His reflection appeared once more in the car window—distorted, slightly altered, as if hinting at secrets yet to be revealed.
The threshold of his apartment was no longer merely a doorway. It was a portal to something new, something dangerous. And standing there, at the edge of the ordinary and the unknown, Arlen felt a thrilling, terrifying certainty: nothing would ever be the same again.