The morning after the storm, the city was quiet in a way that felt almost sacred. The rain had washed everything clean—sidewalks glistened under the pale light, leaves clung to branches like they were afraid to fall, and the sky was a soft, bruised gray.
Sera woke late, tangled in silk sheets, her dreams fragmented and strange. She remembered reflections, voices whispering from behind glass, and a pair of eyes watching her from somewhere unseen. But when she opened her own eyes, the room was still.
She lay there for a moment, listening to the hum of the city outside, letting the remnants of sleep fade into clarity.
Then came the knock.
Not loud. Not impatient. Just once. Precise.
Sera frowned.
No one ever visited unannounced.
Her studio apartment was on the twenty-seventh floor. No delivery service used the front door unless someone had buzzed them up. And no one had.
Still, the knock came again.
She sat up slowly, the covers slipping from her shoulders. Her bare feet met the cool concrete floor, and she stood, wrapping her robe around herself before walking toward the door.
She hesitated.
It wasn't fear—more like caution, the kind that came from living alone long enough to know that unexpected visitors rarely brought good news.
She reached for the peephole.
Standing outside was a man.
He looked like he belonged in a photograph—dark hair slicked back, sharp jawline, eyes the color of storm clouds. He wore a charcoal-gray coat over a black turtleneck, and his hands were tucked casually into his pockets. He didn't look nervous or uncertain. He looked like he knew exactly why he was here.
And more unsettling—he looked like he was expecting her.
"Sera Elowen?" he asked, even though she hadn't spoken yet.
She opened the door just enough to speak through the gap.
"Yes?"
"My name is Kael Ardyn." His voice was smooth, measured. "We've never met. But I feel like I've known you forever."
That sent a ripple through her chest.
There was something about the way he said it—not flirtatious, not creepy. Just… certain.
Like he meant it.
She studied him carefully. "How did you get past the gate?"
"I told them I had an appointment."
"You don't."
"No," he admitted. "But I thought you'd want to see this."
He held out a small envelope.
She took it without opening the door further. It was thick, handmade paper, slightly textured. Inside was a single photograph.
At first glance, it looked like one of her own self-portraits.
But as she examined it more closely, unease crept into her spine.
It was her.
Or rather, someone who looked exactly like her.
Except the woman in the photo was wearing a dress Sera didn't recognize—a deep blue velvet with gold embroidery along the sleeves. Her hair was styled differently too, pulled back into a braid that draped over one shoulder. She was standing in front of a house Sera had never seen, its architecture unfamiliar, the background blurred but unmistakably European.
And on the back, written in elegant script:
I miss you.
Sera stared at it.
Then at him.
"Who are you really?" she asked.
Kael smiled faintly. "Someone who wants to help you understand what's happening to you."
"What do you mean?" Her voice was steady, but her pulse had quickened.
He glanced down at the photo. "You're not just imagining things. You're not going crazy. And you're not alone."
She didn't respond right away.
Instead, she stepped back and opened the door wider.
"Come in."
A Conversation That Shouldn't Happen
Sera led Kael into the apartment, closing the door behind him. He moved with quiet confidence, taking in the space without staring. When he turned to face her, his expression was unreadable.
"I assume you have questions," he said.
"I have a lot more than that."
He nodded. "Fair enough."
She motioned for him to sit, and he lowered himself onto the leather couch opposite the mirror. Sera remained standing, arms crossed, watching him carefully.
"Start with the photo," she said.
"That was taken five years ago," Kael replied. "In Florence."
Sera blinked. "I've never been to Florence."
"You were there. In another version of your life."
She narrowed her eyes. "What does that mean?"
Kael leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You've always known you were different, haven't you? That your sense of self… isn't quite like everyone else's."
She didn't answer immediately.
Because it was true.
From the time she was a child, she had felt a kind of detachment from the world around her. Not loneliness, exactly—more like awareness. Like she existed both inside and outside of herself at the same time.
She had dismissed it as artistic introspection.
But now?
Now, standing in front of this man who claimed to know her better than she knew herself, she wasn't so sure.
"I don't believe in alternate realities," she said finally.
Kael tilted his head. "Do you believe in déjà vu? Dreams that feel more real than waking life? Moments where you feel like you're being watched—even when you're alone?"
Sera's throat tightened.
"Yes."
He smiled, as if he had expected that.
"There are people who experience reality differently," he said. "They see patterns others can't. They remember things that never happened. And sometimes, they begin to feel the pull of other versions of themselves."
She swallowed hard. "Other versions?"
"Think of it like this," Kael continued. "Every decision you make creates a new path. Every 'what if' splits the universe. There are infinite versions of you, living infinite lives. Some happy. Some tragic. Some… very dangerous."
Sera shook her head. "This sounds like science fiction."
"It would be—if it weren't happening to you."
She looked at the photo again.
The woman in it was her . There was no denying it.
But how?
And why did she feel like she recognized her?
The First Crack
Kael stayed for nearly two hours.
He spoke calmly, deliberately, offering no grand gestures or wild theories—just facts, observations, and questions that made her doubt her own mind.
He asked about the mirror.
About the poem she had written last night.
About the dream she had the night before that she hadn't mentioned to anyone.
"How did you know about the dream?" she asked finally.
"I didn't," he said. "Until you confirmed it."
She exhaled sharply.
"This is insane."
"No," he said. "It's just new to you."
She looked at him then—not just at his face, but at the way he carried himself. There was no arrogance in his tone, no condescension. He wasn't trying to convince her. He was simply presenting a truth he believed she was ready to hear.
And that scared her more than anything.
Because part of her did believe him.
After He Leaves
When Kael finally left, the apartment felt heavier.
As if the air itself had changed.
Sera locked the door behind him and walked back to the center of the room. She placed the photo on the coffee table and stared at it.
Then she turned to the mirror.
And for the first time since she could remember, she didn't smile.
Instead, she whispered, "Who are you?"
The reflection didn't answer.
Of course not.
Mirrors didn't talk.
Unless—
She stopped the thought before it finished.
She turned away and poured herself a drink.
By the time she returned to the table, the photo was gone.
The Vanishing
Sera froze.
She had set it down less than ten seconds ago.
She scanned the room, heart pounding.
There.
On the shelf beside her camera equipment.
No.
Wait.
She walked over quickly and searched the surface.
Nothing.
She checked the floor.
Nothing.
She went through every drawer, every cabinet, even the trash bin.
Gone.
Just like that.
She backed away, breath shallow.
She hadn't imagined it. It had been real. A physical object.
So how could it just disappear?
Unless…
Unless it had never been real to begin with.
Unless Kael had never been real.
Unless all of this—this entire conversation, this feeling in her chest, this unraveling—was some elaborate hallucination.
But no.
She remembered the scent of his cologne. The texture of the paper. The weight of the photo in her hand.
She had touched it.
She had felt it.
So what the hell had just happened?
The Message
Later that night, after a restless attempt at sleep, Sera found herself sitting at her desk, staring at the screen.
She had opened her email account on instinct.
And there it was.
A message from an unknown sender.
Subject: You're closer than you think.
Body:
_Sera,
You're not losing your mind. You're awakening to something most people never see.
Trust yourself.
But don't trust the mirror._
There was no signature.
No attachment.
Just those few lines.
And beneath them, a timestamp: Sent 3 minutes ago.
She stared at it.
Then, slowly, she typed a reply.
Who are you?
She hit send.
Less than a second later, the reply appeared.
You already know.
And then the message vanished.
Just like the photo.