I hear a stirring in the attic like dry leaves skittering on bone. Something is moving up there. I stop beneath the opening and listen.
A strange pull rises in me — not quite curiosity, not quite dread — but something that tells me I should go up into the shifting dust and see. I climb up into the dark.

Dust hangs thick in the air, disturbed by the movement, drifting through the narrow shafts of light that push through the cracks in the boards above. The smell of old wood and forgotten things settles into my lungs.

Each step across the floorboards creaks under my weight.

Then I see it.

Glass scattered across the floor.

The pieces catch the thin light and glitter faintly in the gloom like fragments of frozen water.
I follow the trail of fragments up to the frame—a large, ancient mirror, its shroud strewn carelessly, half-fallen like a discarded veil.

It has been so long since I’ve looked into a mirror. I never liked to see the changes in my eyes; I never recognized the person staring back. As I stand before it, a sudden flash of fear ripples through my veins. My skin remembers the old terror. The shadows used to stand heavy by my shoulders every time I dared to look. My breath stutters, sharp and tight.

I shake it off and kneel beside the broken glass picking up the shattered pieces from the floor. One by one I place them back into the empty spaces within the frame. My fingers trace the carved edges of the wood as though remembering something forgotten. Dust clings to the glass, dulling its surface, and I brush it away with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.

Then I pause.

The mirror is whole again.

I blow gently across its surface and the dust lifts in a soft cloud, sparkling as it drifts through the thin lines of sunlight falling from above.

For the first time in years, I look.

I slowly tilt my head to the side, watching the tiny movements. I observe the lines and creases of a face that has changed more than I ever wanted to admit. I look into the swirling of my eyes, like a vortex of violet energy beckoning.

Then I see it.

Movement behind me.

A shape just beyond my shoulder.

The same cold shiver runs through me, goosebumps rising along my arms. My breath tightens in my chest as old instincts wake — to turn away, to cover the glass, to pretend I never saw anything at all. And yet—all of a sudden, I soften.

I’ve always known the mirror is not just a reflection; it is a window for what untrained eyes cannot see. The shapes standing beside me—once perceived as fragments of dust or dangerous shadows—I had them misunderstood. Now, lit up by the energy radiating from within, the truth shows itself.

They have always been there. Standing shoulder to shoulder. Standing behind. These are the faces and memories of those gone before; those who dwell just across the wall.

There is no fear here. No clawing hands grabbing through the liquid glass. Nothing is trying to “cross over” from another side—for they are already here. I realise now that what we allow into our energy can keep us up or tear us down.

I look into the glass and I feel a fierce pride. To stand with them. To be of them. My mirror people. I know they look out for me, and I hold their voices like a low hum within my chest.

I am never alone in the dark.