Anya avoided mirrors for two full days.
That didn't stop them from looking back.
There were too many — in bathrooms, windows, trophy cases, the polished tips of spoons. Even the surface of a still puddle outside the art building seemed to shimmer when she passed.
And every time she saw her reflection, she counted her eyes.
Not because they changed.
Because she wasn't sure they were hers.
At 6:04 a.m., before morning call, she wandered the hallway just outside the chapel.
She was certain it hadn't been there the day before.
The stained glass windows looked warped — the saints on them didn't have faces. Just outlines. And one panel, shattered long ago, had been haphazardly patched with mirror shards instead of glass.
When she passed it, her reflection stayed behind.
In the reflection:
Anya smiled. Anya waved.
Anya tilted her head slightly — but the real Anya had not moved.
The girl behind the glass had darker shadows under her eyes. Her school badge was on the opposite side. Her hair covered her face completely.
Anya backed away.
"I'm you," the mirror girl mouthed.
Anya turned. The hallway was empty. No one behind her.
In the mirror, however — she wasn't alone.
A hand was now on the reflection's shoulder.
A pale, charred hand.
By lunch, Anya's notebook pages were covered in black smudges.
She hadn't written in charcoal.
The words weren't hers.
"If you forget yourself, something else will remember for you."
"The mirrors record. Not reflect."
"They need a girl who can't remember. That's why you're here."
She went to Midori during break.
"You've seen her," Anya said. "The girl who looks like me."
Midori didn't blink. She quietly slipped a folded paper into Anya's hand.
It was a photograph.
Two girls stood in the photo.
One was Anya.
The other had no face. Only static. Like a corrupted image file.
"This was found in your desk on your first day," Midori said softly.
"We didn't show you because… because last time, when we did…"
"Last time?"
"You tried to peel your face off."
That night, Anya locked the closet mirror.
Taped over it with six layers of paper.
She lay in bed, hands shaking.
But the window now had a faint reflection — enough to show a silhouette near her bed.
She rolled over.
No one was there.
In the reflection: a girl stood watching. Same build. Same clothes.
But the face wasn't hers.
The face was blurred, except for the smile.
Anya whispered, "Why me?"
The reflection leaned in, too close for the glass to allow, and whispered back:
"Because you were empty."
The next morning, Anya woke to find her school ID replaced with one that said:
Name: Satsuki
Class: 3-K
Status: Deceased (Fire Log Ref. 1989)
She dropped it.
She didn't scream.
Instead, she picked it back up — and put it in her pocket.