The candle had burned itself into a pool of wax.
The smell of smoke and parchment clung to the air, heavy as guilt.
When Edmund opened his eyes, he wasn't certain if he had truly woken, or if this was yet another dream he hadn't managed to escape.
His desk was cluttered — journals, loose pages, torn letters, the cold remains of last night's coffee. On the topmost page, in his own handwriting, was a single phrase scrawled over and over:
"He isn't real."
He blinked. Once. Twice. The words didn't change. But the ink — it was still wet.
Edmund ran a hand through his hair, the fog in his mind thicker than the London mist outside. He didn't remember writing it. He didn't remember falling asleep, either. The last thing he could recall was his own voice, reading from an unsent letter —
to himself.
---
He rose from his chair. The floor creaked as if complaining.
In the far corner of the room stood the tall mirror he had purchased months ago, the same one from the asylum case, though he couldn't recall ever bringing it home.
For a moment, he saw his reflection — weary eyes, black coat, disheveled hair.
Then the reflection blinked before he did.
Edmund froze.
The reflection smiled.
"Detective," the voice came, though his lips didn't move,
"how do you know you're not me?"
He stumbled back, knocking over his chair. The sound of it hitting the ground echoed longer than it should have. When he dared look again, the reflection was ordinary — lifeless, still. His own face. His own eyes.
He pressed a palm against the cold glass. "You're not real," he whispered.
The reflection whispered back, lips moving a second late. "He isn't real."
---
A knock on the door startled him.
He turned, heart thudding, and found Inspector Wren — or perhaps that's who he was — standing there, hat in hand.
"Good evening, Harrow," the inspector greeted him. "Or should I say… Mr. Edmund?"
"Inspector," Edmund said cautiously, "what brings you here?"
The man tilted his head. "You shouldn't joke like that. You've never worked for the police. You're a patient. Remember?"
For a moment, Edmund almost laughed — until he saw the pity in the man's eyes.
"What?"
"You've been under care since the asylum incident," the inspector said gently. "You come here sometimes. Pretend to investigate. We play along. It helps you calm down."
Edmund's hands trembled. "That's not true."
"Then where's your badge?"
He reached for his coat pocket — empty.
No badge.
No identification.
Only a torn page that read: THE FOOL IS YOU.
The inspector placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's time to go back, Edmund."
But when Edmund blinked, the inspector was gone. The door was closed. There were no footprints on the wooden floor.
---
He sat back down at his desk and reached for his pen. His journal was open again — but the handwriting was not his.
> He visits himself often. He forgets. He remembers. Then forgets again.
He keeps writing stories to explain the blood.
A cold sweat broke over his skin. "Who wrote this?"
No answer.
Only silence — and the faint scratching of ink as words appeared on the page, forming by themselves.
> He will deny it again.
He always does.
He slammed the journal shut, breath ragged.
---
The night stretched on. Hours bled into one another.
He poured himself a glass of whiskey — though the smell was wrong, like old copper and decay.
Outside, fog drowned the city, blurring the lamps into ghosts.
And then, another knock.
This time, no one stood at the door — only a letter, sealed with black wax.
He tore it open.
> The truth is not in front of you, Detective.
The truth is you.
Tomorrow, you will see her again.
No name. No address.
He turned the letter over — his own handwriting again.
---
The next evening.
He returned to his desk, though he wasn't sure why.
A woman stood by the window, her dress white as morning mist.
Her face was soft, familiar. He'd seen her before — in the case of the ghost lover.
"You shouldn't have come here," she whispered.
"Who are you?" Edmund asked.
"Does it matter?" She smiled faintly. "You made me, didn't you?"
He backed away. "You're not real."
"You said that last time too," she murmured, stepping closer. "Before you killed me."
His chest tightened. He could feel her cold hand on his cheek — or perhaps it was only the wind.
"Leave me," he said hoarsely.
"I can't," she replied. "Not until you remember which one of us is the liar."
---
He found himself laughing then — quietly, helplessly.
The laughter grew, echoing in the small room, bouncing off the mirror, splitting into two voices, then three, until it sounded like a choir.
And then — silence.
He looked up.
The mirror no longer showed him.
Instead, it showed you.
Reader. Watcher. Witness.
A faint whisper slithered through the glass:
> "Tell me… do you know which of us is lying?"
The candle flickered once, then went out.
---
The journal lay open on the desk.
Fresh ink glistened on the final line:
> If truth is a reflection, then which side of the glass am I standing on?