Soren stood before the mirror, his hands trembling as he read the words, the ones etched in the ancient wood of the cabinet beneath it:
- Offer rice.
- Burn incense.
- Do not forget the ritual.
Soren had read them since childhood, back when his mother used to whisper prayers in front of the mirror before she vanished without a trace.
He’d kept the habit out of superstition at first. Then out of fear.
But tonight, he forgot.
The mirror loomed above him now, its glass darkened by age, faintly trembling as if breathing. The air carried the scent of damp soil—familiar, wrong.
He muttered, “It’s just a mirror,” and lifted the cloth.
The moment he wiped the surface, the reflection rippled. A faint hum filled the room—low and human, as though someone were sighing on the other side of the glass.
And then he saw it.
A door.
Tall, narrow, made of blackened wood.
Inside the reflection, it slowly opened.
He froze. Behind him, the room was still. But in the glass, things began to move—walls shifting, candles flickering backward, a faint trail of footprints leading toward the mirror, not away.
The air thickened, humming louder.
He reached out, trembling. The moment his fingers brushed the frame, the world folded in on itself.
Sound vanished. Color drained. He felt himself pulled through layers of glass, his reflection splitting and fracturing like shards of memory.
When the stillness broke, he stood in the same room again.
Only it wasn’t the same.
The mirror was gone from the wall—but now stood in front of him, reflecting a world that was whole and living.
And in that reflection, Soren saw himself—calm, breathing, real—standing in the world he’d just left behind.
He pounded the glass.
The other Soren looked up, confused, then smiled faintly and began lighting incense.
Realization clawed through him. The ritual wasn’t protection. It was a trade.
Every offering had bought him another year outside the glass.
Now, the debt was due.
He screamed, but no sound escaped.
The world beyond the glass dimmed, his reflection turning away as if he’d never existed.
Inside the mirror, Soren felt the walls close in, pressing him into the darkness. He could see movement behind him—shapes shifting, whispering, waiting. Others who had forgotten, others who had been bound before him.
He fell to his knees, whispering the old prayer through the cracks in his throat.
Offer rice.
Burn incense.
Do not forget the ritual.
The mirror trembled in response. Somewhere, far beyond the glass, a new voice whispered:
“You’ll remember next time, if next time comes for you.”
The other Soren stood before the mirror again, calm now, expressionless and did the ritual.
He picked up the cloth and began to wipe.
From inside the glass, something else watched — pounding soundlessly against the barrier. His mouth moved, but no sound came. Only the endless, silent rhythm of a man begging to get out.
They say each ancient mirror needs a Keeper.
But when a Keeper forgets the binding, they don’t vanish.
They multiply.
Every Keeper that gets absorbed in the mirror creates an Echo that takes their place in this world — while the original person get trapped behind the glass, an Echo tends forever to a world that isn’t theirs.
Like a thing that wears the owner’s face, they keep the doing the binding on the outside to keep the gate closed.