The office of Dr. Elian Rhodes was unlike any therapist's office Mira had imagined. There were no inspirational posters or sunlit windows. Instead, it felt more like a study—dark wood shelves, a ticking grandfather clock, and thick curtains that blocked the world outside. A desk sat off to one side, and two high-backed chairs faced each other before a small fireplace. The air smelled of cinnamon tea and old paper.
Mira sat with her hands clenched in her lap. She hadn't been to therapy in years. Not since college. Back then, it had been about stress, insomnia, the occasional panic attack. Now it felt like she was dragging an entire second self into the room.
Dr. Rhodes entered quietly, with a clipboard and a warm smile. He was in his fifties, with greying hair and deep lines around his eyes—like someone who had seen too much and learned not to flinch.
"Ms. Kaul," he said gently. "Thank you for coming in."
She nodded. "It's Mira."
"Alright, Mira. You mentioned… unusual experiences?"
Mira hesitated. "I don't know where to start."
"Start with the thing that scares you the most."
She looked down at her hands. "I think… I think someone is sending me messages. But it's not just anyone."
He waited.
"I think it's me."
Dr. Rhodes raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Just made a note.
Mira took a shaky breath. "I've received letters. All in my own handwriting. They predict things—dangerous things. And they keep being right."
He nodded slowly. "When did this begin?"
"A few days ago. But then I found an old journal. I think… it may have started years earlier. I just don't remember."
He steepled his fingers. "Do you believe these are premonitions? Or some kind of dissociative expression?"
"I don't know what I believe. There's something… watching me. In mirrors. Sometimes it talks. Sometimes it smiles before I do. And the worst part is—I'm not always afraid of her."
Rhodes sat back, silent for a moment. "Have you ever heard of mirror-touch synesthesia?"
She blinked. "I think so. People feel what they see others feel?"
"Yes. But there are psychological extensions to it. Theorists have suggested that in extreme trauma, the brain can fracture—splitting the self into mirrored versions. One that endures, one that remembers."
"Remembers what?"
He looked at her carefully. "Have you ever blacked out before? Lost time as a child?"
Mira's gaze dropped. "Maybe. There's a year I don't remember. Between age eight and nine. My parents said I was just quiet, withdrawn. I never asked."
"That could be significant."
There was a long pause.
"I keep thinking," she said softly, "what if the letters are from that version of me? The one I forgot? The one that remembers something I shouldn't?"
"That's possible," he said. "And if so, she's trying to get your attention. Perhaps even warn you."
"Why now?"
"That," he said, "is what we'll try to uncover."
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small black leather book. "This is my cognitive regression journal. If you're willing, we'll begin documenting your sessions. With your permission, I'd like to run a series of memory stimulations—using audio, visual, and sensory cues."
Mira hesitated. "And what if something dangerous comes out?"
Dr. Rhodes offered a calm smile. "Then it was already there, Mira. We're just making it visible."
---
That night, Mira returned home feeling heavier, as though she'd carried something out of the office with her. She didn't speak to Lena. Didn't touch her food.
She walked to the mirror.
Her reflection looked back.
She lifted her hand. The reflection did the same.
She blinked.
The reflection blinked.
Then—so suddenly Mira couldn't breathe—her reflection spoke.
Not with lips. Not with sound.
But inside her skull.
"He can't help you. I already live here."
Mira gasped and backed away. Her shoulder hit the doorframe.
She stared in horror.
The reflection smiled.
---
End of Chapter 4