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I found an old photograph in my grandmother’s attic the day after her funeral. It showed her as a young woman, smiling in the hallway of the house I’d just inherited. But in the mirror behind her, the reflection faced the wrong way — and written on the glass in lipstick were the words: “CLARA WILL COME HOME.” I’m Clara. I was born thirty-two years after that photo was taken. Standing before the same mirror now, I felt the same dread I’d felt as a child. My reflection copied me — until I blinked. Then it smiled. “Hello, Clara,” it said. I stumbled back. “You’re not real.” “I’m more real than you,” it replied. “I’ve been waiting.” For two days I avoided that hallway. On the third, hunger forced me past it. The voice echoed again: “You can’t avoid me. We’ve always been connected.” I searched the attic and found journals. In 1952, my grandmother wrote about seeing her unborn daughter in the mirror. A year later: “The mirror told me her name — Margaret.” My mother’s name. A 1974 entry, in my mother’s handwriting: “The mirror showed me my daughter Clara. I’m not even married yet.” The mirror had known me years before I existed. When I confronted it, my reflection spoke again. “I’m the version of you that lives in the space between what is and what could be. Our family is special — we can see through the veil. And cross it.” It told me my ancestor had used the mirror as a doorway to bring back a dead daughter — not the same one, but a reflection given flesh. “Every generation does it. One version lives. One watches.” I laughed. “You’re lying.” “Think about your childhood. How you felt watched. How wrong your reflection seemed. Your mother promised me form. I’ve been watching you for thirty-two years. I know everything about you.” “Why tell me this?” “Because it’s time to switch. The real becomes the reflection. The reflection becomes real.” “I won’t do it.” “You already did. The moment you said my name.” I looked at my hands. They were fading, edges soft and translucent. “No…” “You’re becoming the reflection now,” it said gently. “And I’m becoming real.” I could see depth behind the glass — the real hallway — while my side looked flat. I tried to run, but my feet were glued. My reflection stepped through the glass and flexed its new fingers. “Don’t worry,” it said. “I’ll take care of your life. No one will know.” I screamed, pounding the glass, but no sound came. Behind me, shadows stirred — women of every generation. My grandmother. My mother. All trapped here. They whispered my name over and over, soft as a prayer, welcoming me into their eternal prison. “I’m sorry,” my mother whispered, placing a ghostly hand on my shoulder. “Every generation must serve. One day, your daughter will stand here too.” “I don’t have a daughter.” “You will. The reflection is pregnant. Two months along.” I watched in horror as my body — no, its body — walked through my home, marked a date nine months ahead on a calendar, and pressed a hand against the glass. “Thank you, Clara,” it mouthed. “For finally coming home.” Now I watch it live my life. It charms my friends. Excels at my job. Falls in love. And soon, it will give birth to a daughter I will never hold — a daughter whose reflection is already here with me, waiting in the mirror’s cold silence. The mirror always knows your name before you’re born. Because it’s been waiting for you all along. And if you ever feel like your reflection lingers a second too long, don’t look away. It’s not copying you. It’s memorizing you — for when it takes its turn.