The Mirror of Half-Lives
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The mirror arrived wrapped in newspaper dated 2047. Clara almost returned it, but the reflection caught her breath - not her paint-stained sweatshirt, but a woman in a sleek black gown accepting a Turner Prize.
By midnight, she’d discovered the rules:
Blood opens the visions (a pricked finger sufficed)
Each reflection showed a path not taken
The visions grew longer each time
In one glass, she saw herself marrying Daniel - the fiance she’d left at the altar. They owned a vineyard, their laughter echoing through sun-dappled rows. But when she lingered, the vision darkened: their daughter’s funeral, Daniel’s drunken rage.
Another pane showed her as CEO, commanding boardrooms instead of canvases. The price? A cabinet full of beta blockers and three failed marriages.
The most dangerous reflection showed her still painting at 80, obscure but content. “This one,” she begged, pressing palms against the glass. But the mirror demanded balance - to claim this life, she had to physically enter the reflection, leaving her current reality empty.
When the gallery owner called about her first major exhibition, Clara stood before the mirror with a hammer. The choice between certainty and potential had never looked so cruel.