Every time I look into a mirror or through a window, I see his face. It amazes me how, just a few weeks ago, I didn’t even know he existed, and now he’s all I can think about. Of course, I know I’m not just seeing things – I know he’s there, watching me. He probably wishes I could come back; but we both know it can’t happen.

Nobody will believe me; even if I still had the Mirror as proof, the story is too fantastic for anyone to consider that I have no reason to lie. But if I don’t get all this out, I feel like I’m going to go crazy.

I’m not asking to be believed – my hopes aren’t nearly so high. I’m asking to be listened to, to be given a chance to tell my story. Afterwards… do whatever you want with the knowledge; believe it or not: it’s your choice.

I should start at the beginning, I suppose; I’ve always been told it’s the proper place to begin. And the beginning is, of course, the Mirror.

It was a gift I’d received from my uncle for my 16th birthday. As it was my supposed Sweet Sixteen, I’d been expecting something more than a mirror from him – he was, after all, my favorite uncle. I was disappointed to say the least. Nonetheless, a gift is a gift, and there was no law saying he had to get me anything, so I thanked him. He seemed to sense my disappointment, though – I suppose my thanks weren’t exactly sincere.

After I had opened my gifts from the rest of my family – my parents had decided that I could have a friends-only party later – my uncle motioned for me to talk to him in private. “It’s not just a mirror,” he told me.

I thought, not for the first time, that he was insane. “If it’s not a mirror,” I asked, “what is it?”

“I said it’s not just a mirror,” he answered cryptically. “If you look into it, it will still show your face. Usually.” I had been convinced – he was mad.

I thought it would be polite to listen to his insanity for a little while, at least, before I looked up the number for the nearest asylum. “And what about the other times?” I asked, playing along.

“The other times – you’ll find out for yourself.”

It’s a good thing he didn’t tell me what he meant – if he had, I would have smashed the mirror, and who knows what would have happened then?

I looked into the mirror and saw – my face. Exactly as expected. He laughed. “I’ve got to go,” he announced to the rest of my family, and he left.

I went back to my family and the party, and tried to forget about the mirror. In retrospect, I’m glad I did – those are the last hours I will ever spend not thinking about it.