Ellie stirred in her sleep, a faint whisper brushing her ear like wind through cracked windows.
"Ellie…"
Her eyes snapped open.
She shot up, breath shallow. The bedroom was colder. Still. Wrong.
Three new mirrors stood along the walls — tall, watching.
"No, no, no—" she muttered, stumbling from bed.
She raced downstairs. The hallway was lined — six mirrors now. Lined like mourners at a funeral.
Her chest tightened. She rushed outside to the curb. Empty. The spot she'd dumped them was bare, like they had never been there at all.
She turned to face her house. Every window stared back.
Slowly, she stepped inside. "If this is a prank, it's gone too far… It's not funny."
Silence.
The air felt thicker, like the house was breathing.
She stopped in front of one mirror.
Her reflection grinned.
Not a trick of light — not her.
She gasped, stepping back in horror—smacking into another behind her.
Then, one by one, the mirrors began to move.
They flickered, like old tapes coming to life.
Each showed a fragment of her:
Her as a little girl crying in her closet.
Her mother screaming.
Her ex slamming the door.
Her, curled on the floor.
Lonely. Broken.
"No…" she whispered.
"Stop."
"STOP!"
She lunged and smashed one.
It cracked , then split. Into two.
She smashed another. It divided. Again. And again.
The trauma didn't shatter.
It multiplied.
"Please…" her voice quivered.
She fell to her knees, covering her ears as every mirror whispered a memory, a fear, a wound.
Darkness bloomed across the walls. The house groaned like it was remembering.
And then—nothing.
Just silence.
A still house.
A quiet woman.