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Straightening the crumpled paper, a drawing appeared before his eyes. His brows knitted together as he examined the strange figure. It was a jester, sketched in pencil, wearing a hat with long flaps tipped with bells and a wide collar. Despite the simplicity of the lines, the face was unsettling. The smile stretched just a little too far, beyond what human lips could manage, and the deep, hollow eye sockets gave the figure a sinister edge.
— Damn… — Mark exhaled, staring at the drawing. A faint chill rose within him. The sketch wasn’t just strange—it was unnerving.
Suddenly, a wave of memories crashed over him.
He was sitting at a wooden desk, the same one he had been using for homework these past months, in this very room. A sketchbook lay open before him, and a pencil glided confidently across the page. Every line formed with precision, yet with urgency, as if his hands already knew what to draw. A faint tension grew inside him. "I have to draw it and show Mom. Why doesn’t she believe me?!"
He traced the pencil over the same spots repeatedly, deepening the details, as though afraid they’d disappear if he didn’t anchor them to the paper.
"That’s him, I’m sure! That’s who I saw! And that smile! Silly and scary—though he didn’t seem scary to me then. Or… didn’t he? Damn, I remembered how he looked—why am I forgetting now? This is important! So important!" The thought raced through his mind as his heartbeat quickened, and his fingers gripped the pencil so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
When the final line was in place, he leaned back, studying the result. The jester stared back at him from the paper—sinister, enigmatic. The gaze made his skin crawl. "I have to show Mom!"
— Mom! — he called out, though his voice sounded almost hesitant.
There was no answer, just muffled noise from another room. His mother was busy. Her irritated voice rang out suddenly:
— Emma, help set the table! The guests are almost here! — Her tone was sharp, as if she’d been interrupted from something important.
Emma froze, still staring at the drawing. "Not now. I can’t show it now," she thought. A wave of protest welled up inside her, but Emma already knew it wasn’t the right time. Guests were coming, and she’d spent too much time on the drawing, completely forgetting about everything else. But what mattered most was that she had finished it. And Mark… he’d be here too. Her heart skipped slightly at the thought of him.
She looked at the drawing again. The jester’s eyes—empty, shadowy voids instead of pupils—seemed to mock her, and that eerie grin… She had never drawn anything scarier in her life. "Mark would back me up that I’m not lying. He saw it too! Though back then he… Ugh, damn, but if someone else sees this… Mom’s definitely going to get mad."
She felt the drawing was important, too important to throw away or leave out in the open. "I’ll just hide it. For now. I’ll show it to Mom later. I have to."
Emma quickly scanned the room. There was no time—the clatter of pots and footsteps from the kitchen grew louder, and her mother’s voice sounded again:
— Emma! I’m serious!
Bolting into action, Emma crawled under the bed, fumbling around in the dark. "It’s here somewhere… There! Got it!"
There was a small tear in the fabric under the bed—barely noticeable. She’d known about it for a long time, ever since she used to play hide-and-seek and hid under there. "It’ll be safe here."
Her hands trembled slightly as she folded the paper and tucked it inside. Once hidden, she carefully smoothed out the fabric, as if trying to erase any trace of her impulsive decision. She glanced at the mattress one last time and exhaled. That was it.
— Coming, Mom! — she shouted, standing up and trying to sound cheerful, though her voice wavered slightly.
Mark exhaled sharply, scanning the room. Everything was as it had been: the broken bed nearby, textbooks, and the desk where the small mirror still stood. His feet felt the firm wooden floor, and in his hands, he held the unfolded sheet with the drawing. Yet his heart pounded wildly in his chest, as if he had just escaped a nightmare.
— Did I make this? — he muttered, then quickly amended: — I mean, she did… but what does it all mean?
He tried to calm his breathing and think logically. "Hell no… what are these dumb questions? It’s just… just a drawing. Nothing more. The memories are side effects of this… whatever mirror stuff. They’re just memories, that’s all. Or… or maybe not?"
His thoughts raced, and his chest tightened. The questions kept piling up. He looked at the drawing again.
"And yet… Why did I… Why did she draw it? And why was she going to show it to Mom? What does it all mean? What does it mean that Mark saw it? I didn’t… I know I didn’t see this. There’s no way I’d forget something like this!" Mark looked at the drawing again, but the more he stared at it, the more he realized he was seeing it for the first time in his life.
The jester was staring straight at him, its mocking grin growing more vivid, and for a moment, it almost seemed as though the picture had come to life.