During a summer trip to my grandparents’ house in the countryside, I shared an attic room with my cousins. I was given the cot that faced the large, old wardrobe with a tarnished mirror on its door. The nights there were deep and quiet, with darkness falling swiftly after dusk.
One evening, I fell into a heavy sleep on my back, staring at the wooden beams above until my eyes closed. I awoke much later, the moon high in the sky. A strange stillness held me. I was completely aware but could not move a muscle, my limbs feeling as if they were made of stone. I tried to call out to my cousins sleeping nearby, but my voice was trapped in my throat.
Straining to lift my eyelids, my blurry gaze drifted toward the dark mirror across the room. In its shadowy surface, a figure stood, pale and motionless, watching me from within the glass.