I
In the attic of the sprawling Blackwood Manor, covered in a sheet of dusty velvet, stood a mirror. It was tall, framed in tarnished silver, and it did not show you your face. It showed you yesterday.
Not the general concept of yesterday, but exactly 24 hours ago, to the second.
Detective Aris Thorne stood before it. He was investigating the murder of Lord Blackwood. The body had been found in this very room, slumped in the chair Aris was now ignoring.
"If the legends are true," Aris muttered, "this case is already solved."
He checked his pocket watch. It was midnight. Lord Blackwood had died at 11:55 PM the previous night. Aris waited. The reflection in the mirror showed the empty attic room, lit by the same moon that shone outside.
Then, in the mirror, the door opened. Aris held his breath. He saw Lord Blackwood enter. The man in the mirror looked agitated, pacing the floor. He poured a drink, his hands shaking.
11:50 PM in the reflection.
The door opened again. A figure stepped in. They were cloaked, their face hidden in shadow. Aris leaned closer, his nose almost touching the cold glass. Turn around, he urged the killer. Let me see you.
The argument in the mirror was silent. Aris watched the pantomime of rage. Lord Blackwood threw his glass. The cloaked figure didn't flinch. They raised a hand. A flash of silver—a dagger.
Lord Blackwood fell.
The killer stood over the body. Then, slowly, they turned toward the mirror. They reached up and pulled down their hood.
Aris gasped. The face in the mirror was... his own.
He stumbled back, knocking over a lamp. "Impossible. I wasn't here. I was at the station."
But the Aris in the mirror smiled—a cold, cruel smile that Aris had never worn. The reflection didn't walk away. It walked towards the mirror. It placed a bloody hand against the glass, right where Aris's hand had been moments ago.
And then, the reflection winked.
Aris realized then that the mirror didn't show the past. It showed the truth you refused to remember.
He looked at his own hands. There was a smear of dried blood under his fingernail. A memory, locked behind a door in his mind he didn't know he had, burst open.
He hadn't been at the station. He had been here. He had always been here.
Sirens wailed in the distance, getting closer. Aris looked at the mirror one last time. The reflection was gone. Only a terrified man stared back.