Anne had owned the mirror for years without ever owning it in the way that mattered. It was mounted on the back of her bedroom door when she rented the apartment, already there, already fitted to the space, a full-length slab of glass screwed into a thin wooden frame. Practical. Unremarkable. The kind of thing you dressed in front of without thinking.

Most mornings, she used it efficiently. A glance to make sure nothing was out of place. A correction. A confirmation. Then she was gone—out the door to work, to meetings, to obligations that required her to be assembled correctly and on time. The mirror existed to help her leave.

Tonight was different.

She wasn’t late. Not early either. Just… still. The nightclub waited somewhere beyond the apartment as an idea more than a destination. Music, bodies, the chance of being noticed. She hadn’t decided if she cared enough to go, only that she didn’t want to stay in.

She stepped into the dress without urgency. Beige. Simple. Short enough to be intentional, low enough to be confident without explanation. When she straightened, the fabric settled cleanly against her, and for once she didn’t reach to adjust it again. She looked good. Not in a hungry way. Not in a searching way. Just—good.

The heels came next. She balanced on one foot, fastening the strap of the first shoe, her posture relaxed, unguarded. She checked herself in the mirror, not for flaws but for presence.

That was when she noticed it.

The reflection was accurate in every detail that should have mattered—same dress, same bare shoulder catching the light—but the woman in the glass stood differently. Her weight was settled, not angled. Her shoulders rested as if they belonged there. It wasn’t dramatic. It was economical. As if the reflection had made a small decision Anne hadn’t.

Anne shifted. The reflection followed, but not quite in sync. A fraction off. Enough to be wrong.

She bent to slip on the second heel and her balance tipped forward. Without thinking, she reached out and caught the edge of the mirror frame.

Her hand didn’t stop where it should have.

The glass held, but it gave. Not visibly. Not enough to ripple or crack. Just a subtle yielding, like pressing into something that had learned how to pretend it was solid.

Anne froze. Her fingers rested against the surface, warm skin meeting cool resistance that wasn’t quite resistance at all. The reflection did not move.

It stood there, calm in its posture, looking back at her with an ease Anne recognized and couldn’t place.

She tested it again. Gently. A fingertip, then her palm. The mirror accepted the pressure without protest, the way water does before it breaks.

Anne laughed once, softly, under her breath. Curious now. Bored enough to be brave. She pressed a little harder and felt the surface thin further, as if depth were a suggestion rather than a rule.

On the other side, the room was the same. The same door. The same bed. The same low light. But the woman there—her—stood without the tension Anne carried so quietly she’d stopped noticing it. No hurry. No destination waiting to justify movement. She looked rested. Relieved.

Anne understood then that she could step through.

Not metaphorically. Not eventually. Now.

The knowledge didn’t frighten her. It arrived cleanly, like a fact that had been waiting to be acknowledged. She drew her hand back and the surface firmed again, obedient, patient.

She stood there for a long moment, heels on, dress untouched, considering a world that asked less of her without offering anything new. She thought of the night outside the apartment. The club. The effort. The small performances she would give and receive.

When she touched the mirror again, she did so deliberately.

The crossing was quieter than she expected. No sensation of falling. No rupture. Just the sense of pressure easing, of effort being released. Like exhaling after holding her breath longer than she’d meant to.

Later—much later—it occurred to her that the mirror hadn’t changed at all.

The frame was worn where hands had rested before. The screws were old. The backing mismatched the door, as if it had been mounted and remounted across years, across tenants. The mirror had always been this way. It had never waited for her. It had simply required a moment when someone stood in front of it without rushing toward the next thing.

Anne had qualified by accident.

She wondered how many people hadn’t.

On the other side, she closed the bedroom door gently, the mirror now facing the wall, and felt an unfamiliar calm settle into place. Somewhere, a version of her might still be standing in heels, deciding whether to go out. But here, there was nothing she needed to leave for.

The mirror had done what it always did.

It had offered another way to stay.

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