Your family has given you enough time to prepare. More than enough, perhaps, because when their patience finally ran out and all they gave you were scowls and cold shoulders, your way to escape was ready to be used.
Still, you find yourself staring at it, hesitation blooming in your heart.
It is a mirror, an ordinary one. The kind you’ll find in any clothing store, tall and slim, its surface slightly stained with dust and fingerprints. Your fingerprints, of course; no one knows about this place except you, and perhaps the one who showed you the mirror a long time ago.
A one-way escape, this mirror is—you still remember what she said back then. It shall aid you in your time of need. You will know when that is, and know that only those aware of its existence can use it.
You didn’t even know her that well; one day, she just appeared, a girl no older than your thirteen-year-old self, strange yet familiar at the same time. She sniffed and rubbed her reddened face as the teacher led you to her, seemingly under the assumption that something had happened to your family and your older sister was there to drive you home. What a sweet sister she is, your teacher cooed. Go home now, you two. Drive safely, and know that we’ll be there if things go awry.
Which, in fact, they hadn’t. You dutifully got into her car; what kind it was, you couldn’t tell, though you still remember the peeling paint and scratches on that blue exterior. The smell inside was quite pleasant, lemon and a hint of vanilla, reminding you of the lemon cheesecake Gramma Jane used to bake in her prime.
She didn’t say anything at first. Her sweater was red, with a yellow star knitted across the front, and her hair was cut in a style that reminded you of Edna from The Incredibles, minus the glasses. Her eyes were rimmed with red, tears streaking her pale cheeks as she drove on, seemingly oblivious to your presence.
But of course, no thirteen-year-old could endure the silence, so you decided to break it in the only way you knew how.
“Who the hell are you?”
The girl flinched. You realized how dark her eyes were as she gave you a quick glance before focusing on the road again.
“You’re not my sister.”
The statement seemed only to deepen her sadness, whatever the cause. She bit her lower lip as she nodded, tears streaming down her face.
“Don’t cry now,” you said. “You’re driving.”
“I know, just… Please keep quiet. I won’t kidnap you, I promise.”
What a lame way to convince someone, let alone a teenager. Not that I had any other option; she had driven her car onto the highway, which definitely didn’t lead to my house. I could try to get to the nearby police station.
Before you could say anything, however, she spoke.
“You’re going to hate me.”
“What?”
“You’ll hate me when you understand.”
“I already hate you a little.”
That earned the smallest laugh. It vanished almost immediately.
“I’m you.”
You stared at her.
Then you laughed.
She didn’t.
The road stretched endlessly ahead, the afternoon sun bleeding orange across the windshield.
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I were.”
She reached into the pocket of her sweater and pulled out a photograph. It was old, its corners folded and worn. She handed it to you without looking away from the road.
There you were.
Thirteen years old. Standing beside Gramma Jane’s lemon tree, grinning with a missing front tooth.
And beside you stood the girl driving the car.
Only she was younger.
Much younger.
The same face. The same dark eyes.
Your face.
Your stomach twisted.
“She told me about the mirror,” the girl whispered. “I found it when I was seventeen. I used it once.”
“Who?”
“Gramma Jane.”
You looked at the photograph again.
“She knew?”
“She knew everything.”
The car slowed.
Ahead stood an abandoned roadside motel, its faded sign flickering despite half its letters being missing.
The girl pulled into the parking lot.
“You need to go home,” she said.
“This isn’t my home.”
“No.” She looked at you then, tears returning to her eyes. “Not yet.”
She explained almost everything that day, though you understood very little. There were places that touched other places, moments that could be folded like paper. The mirror was one such place. She had come from a future where your family had destroyed itself, where everyone who could have helped had decided not to.
She had escaped.
Then, somehow, she had found you.
“You have to remember the mirror,” she said before leaving you at the motel. “When you’re ready, it will remember you too.”
And now, twenty years later, you stand before it.
The memory returns with painful clarity.
You reach out.
Your fingers touch the glass.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then the reflection smiles.
You do not.
Your reflection raises its hand.
You slowly lower yours.
There is someone standing behind the reflection.
A girl in a red sweater.
A yellow star knitted across her chest.
Her eyes are swollen from crying.
She presses her palm against the other side of the glass.
“You finally came,” she whispers.
And suddenly, you understand.
She wasn’t your sister.
She never was.
She was your daughter.
The daughter you would have in a life you were never meant to survive.
The mirror begins to crack.
You have only one chance.
You step forward.
The glass feels warm.
Behind you, somewhere beyond the hidden room, your family begins pounding on the door.
You close your eyes.
And walk through.