Maya’s new apartment came with an unusual perk: a massive antique mirror, built into the

wall of her bedroom. Its frame was a masterpiece of tarnished silver, its edges etched with
intricate floral patterns. The landlord had told her it couldn’t be removed. She hadn’t thought
much of it at the time, though it did make arranging her furniture awkward. Still, she
appreciated its charm, an elegant reminder of the building’s storied past.

Her first few nights in the apartment were uneventful. She spent hours unpacking, arranging
her books, and hanging her favourite artwork. It was only on the fourth night that she noticed
something strange. Standing in front of the mirror, brushing her hair, she caught a glimpse of
movement that didn’t align with her own. It was subtle: the faintest delay in her reflection
lowering the brush. She laughed it off as a trick of the light or her own fatigue.

But the next evening, it happened again. This time, her reflection smiled when her face
remained neutral. A chill ran down her spine. She leaned closer, inspecting the glass for
warps or imperfections. Nothing. The mirror was flawless.

“It’s just in my head,” she told herself, retreating to bed. But sleep didn’t come easily. The
mirror’s presence loomed, a silent watcher in the darkened room.

The following night, curiosity overpowered fear. Maya set up a chair in front of the mirror
and sat, staring into her reflection’s eyes. Hours passed. Her own face stared back, motionless
and ordinary. Just as she began to relax, her reflection moved—a slight tilt of the head,
unprompted. Her stomach turned.

“Who are you?” she whispered; her voice barely audible. To her horror, her reflection
mouthed the same words but with an unmistakable smirk.

Maya bolted upright, knocking the chair over. She ran to the other side of the room, her chest
heaving. The reflection now stood still, mimicking her panicked expression. She considered
calling someone but felt foolish. What could she say? “My mirror’s acting strange”?

She resolved to cover it with a sheet. Dragging an old blanket from the closet, she threw it
over the mirror and shoved the chair against it for good measure. Satisfied, she climbed into
bed, her eyes darting to the now-hidden mirror. Exhaustion finally pulled her into a restless
sleep.

She woke abruptly to the sound of glass shattering. Her heart raced as she turned toward the
mirror. The sheet had fallen, and the glass lay in shards across the floor. But the frame was
intact, and within it, the reflective surface seemed… whole. The mirror was still there,
untouched by the destruction.

Maya approached cautiously. Her reflection was gone. The mirror showed only the room
behind her, empty and still. Just as she reached out, a hand shot through the glass, cold and
unyielding, and grabbed her wrist.

She screamed as she was yanked into the mirror’s depths. The world twisted, a cold void
swallowing her whole. When she opened her eyes, she was standing in the mirror, looking
out at her own bedroom. Her reflection—no, the intruder—smoothed her hair and turned
toward the door.
“Don’t worry,” it said, its voice resonating faintly in the enclosed space. “I’ll take good care
of your life.”

Maya pounded on the glass, screaming. But no sound escaped. The intruder left the room,
shutting the door behind her, leaving Maya trapped in the silent prison of her own reflection.