December 28, 2025

The mirror hung in the hallway between the bedrooms and the front door — the spot everyone passed through at least twice a day. It wasn’t fancy, just a tall rectangle in a chipped mahogany frame, but it had belonged to someone’s grandmother — the one from the old country, the one no one liked to talk about much. It had followed the family through generations, quietly watching.

It was after the winter solstice that the frost first appeared. Just a faint rim of silver across the glass, like breath on a windowpane. The heat was on, and the hallway wasn’t cold, but no one thought much of it at first. Old houses had quirks.

But the frost didn’t melt. It crept inward, forming patterns — delicate veins, like cracks or branches — and then strange shapes. At first, you might think they were smudges. Then shadows. Then faces.

When you looked into the mirror too long, you didn’t see your reflection anymore. You saw something else. Not the future. Not exactly the past. Something deeper: what you buried. Regrets. Secrets. The worst of what you feared and the parts of yourself you never dared name.

People reacted differently. One cousin wept. Another laughed until her voice broke. One child stood so still that it took a full minute to pull him away.

Doctor Eleanor Grage — recently returned from a sabbatical no one quite believed was voluntary — examined the mirror at the family’s request. She brought with her Anne, her newest assistant. The first woman in a long line of frazzled, pale young men who usually fled halfway through their first case.

Anne was different. Calm. Observant. She wore no makeup, no jewelry, just a wool sweater the color of wet stone and boots meant for walking into places best left alone.

“It’s not haunted,” Dr. Grage said after gazing into the glass for an uncomfortably long time. “It’s remembering you back.”

They tried covering it. The blanket froze. They tried moving it. The hallway… resisted. Grew longer. Dimmer. Time slowed there, or stretched, or twisted in a way that left people dizzy after passing through.

In the end, no one could say for certain what the mirror showed them. Only that they saw it alone. And afterward, they were never quite the same.

Some started avoiding the hallway altogether, slipping out the back door, pretending they’d forgotten something upstairs. But eventually, everyone had to pass by. And when they did, they glanced — just for a second.

After all, it’s only a mirror. And it’s always been there.

As they turned out the hallway light that night, Anne lingered behind. She stood before the mirror, motionless, her breath forming tiny clouds in the cold air.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t speak.

But later, as she and Dr. Grage packed their things, she said quietly, almost conversationally:

“It remembered my mother.”

Dr. Grage didn’t ask for details. She rarely needed to.