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A few months ago…
Opening the door to the now all-too-familiar building entrance, Mark let out a heavy sigh as he stepped onto the creaking stairs. Another pointless trip to that stupid mirror in that stupid museum. His insides churned with anger and frustration. "Why doesn’t it show anything? Why only my… or rather, her reflection? Am I doing something wrong? Or… am I just losing my mind?" Mark clenched his fists, his breath quickening.
Once again, he’d made the trip, spent the last of his lunch money—money he’d practically stolen from his own meals—only to get… nothing. Just his own reflection. Emma.
He reached the third floor, where the peeling paint on the walls was now a permanent feature, and glanced at the neighbor’s door. Loud arguments often echoed from there, but today, it was quiet. The memory crept into his mind again. He was sitting on the cold stairs, clutching a doll named Belle tightly in his hands. That name was one he and Grandma had come up with together. Belle was the only toy left after the move. Grandma was gone now, but the doll seemed to hold onto all the warmth and care Emma had felt from her as a little girl.
That day, Mom was arguing with the neighbor from that very apartment. The shouting made Emma curl into a ball, but she sat there. She didn’t want to let Mom down, even as fear and determination waged war inside her. Her fingers were numb, and the doll’s plastic felt icy, but she didn’t move. She tried not to cry, though tears threatened to spill. "I just drew some flowers… They’re so cute! Why is he so mad?" the thought ran through her mind then.
A strange sadness flickered through Mark. He felt a sharp pang of guilt, as if he had been the one drawing those silly flowers. "It looked good… Why didn’t he like it?" That feeling rose uncomfortably, vividly real. "What the hell?! It’s all because of that mirror! I didn’t do it, but damn it, it feels like I did..."
A flyer stuck in the doorway caught his eye. Mark yanked it out almost automatically and tossed it aside without a second thought. "More spam," he muttered, jamming the key into the lock. Ever since he’d seen those two people in the mirror, these strange memories of Emma had started surfacing. He didn’t know what triggered them, but they were always vivid, always deeply emotional. It felt like he was living her joys, fears, and resentments himself.
As soon as Mark stepped inside, he heard laughter coming from the kitchen. His gaze fell on a pair of men’s shoes near the door. He froze, momentarily unable to process what he was seeing. "What the hell? Who could that be?" Irritation bubbled in his chest. Men’s laughter and shoes at the door? Had she brought a guy here? Did she forget him that quickly? The smell of fried meat hit his nose, and his stomach twisted painfully. A whole day without food, because he’d saved his lunch money for yet another pointless trip. "Fantastic. Just great," he muttered under his breath, shrugging off his jacket and struggling to suppress the urge to slam the door so hard everyone would know he was home.
— You’re just in time! — came Monica’s cheerful voice as she peeked out from the kitchen with a wide smile. Mark was halfway through taking off his shoes. "Damn it. She could’ve at least pretended not to notice." He looked up and saw Monica’s eyes, full of that playful warmth he remembered so well, the kind that often came when she’d laugh at his jokes without a care. It only annoyed him more.
— Dinner’s just about done, come in and say hi! — She waved him over, gesturing at a man in a striped shirt who appeared behind her, holding a glass of wine. Mark froze, realizing exactly where this was heading.
— Monica, you said your daughter was sweet, but she’s absolutely gorgeous, — the man said, turning to the kitchen’s hostess before his eyes landed on Emma. His gaze lingered just a second too long for comfort.
Mark stiffened, a wave of unease rippling down his spine. "What the hell is this?" he thought, struggling to pinpoint what exactly was making him so uneasy.
— Oh, where are my manners, — the man stepped closer, extending a hand with a confident smile. — James Reed. Pleasure to meet you, Emma.
Mark looked at his outstretched hand, noting the expensive watch on his wrist and his perfectly groomed nails, as if he’d just left a salon. His eyes flicked to the immaculately ironed shirt with rolled-up sleeves that revealed toned arms—arms that clearly hadn’t been built working construction. "Of course. A real hero. Straight out of an ad made for people like Monica."
— Mm-hmm, — Mark muttered without offering his hand. He brushed past James as if he wasn’t even there, heading straight for his room.
— Emma, what kind of manners are those? — Monica called after him, her tone reproachful but tinged with faint irritation. James just chuckled.
— It’s fine. I was a teenager once too. Though… it’s been a while, — he said, winking at Monica. She flinched slightly at the sound of Mark’s door slamming loudly, but quickly forced a strained smile, redirecting her attention to James.