Nicolas stared at the empty mirror for what was probably a long time. But it wasn't his imagination, he knew that. He could see the painting that hung on the bathroom wall behind him, even the ivy growing on the doorway as the light reflected onto the plants behind him in the dusty, cracked reflection. But the bathroom on the other side of the mirror was completely empty.

  This must be some kind of illusion, he thought to himself. He pointed the light at himself, and through the mirror he could see the wall behind him light up, but there was still no one there. It was almost like it wasn't even the same wall, but a different wall. Like the room he saw in the mirror wasn’t the same as the one he was in.

  Like a window.

  Nicolas knew that was stupid.

  This whole stupid thing was stupid.

  A sudden, strange sense of anger shot through him. Anger at his life, at the world for taking Sam from him, anger at whatever higher power rules over the universe, anger at this stupid mirror for whatever practical joke it was pulling.

  His fist was moving before he could think about why, flying toward the glass like a bullet.

  He expected to hear glass shattering, as shards of the world Nicolas didn't seem to exist in shattered and broke to pieces; but instead, it was the sound of the house shaking as Nicolas’ dad punched the wall beside him, his fist embedding itself into the drywall.

  “I said be quiet!” The words echoed through the empty house he'd grown up in.

  Nicolas was quiet from that point on.

  He'd been trying to cheer his dad up. Partially because, at the time, he loved him. But also because Nicolas was hurt, too. Even though it had been almost a month since the car crash that killed his mother, Nicolas hadn't been able to sleep for a while, and he was starting to wonder if his sleep would ever feel normal.

  Nicolas took a step away from his father—the levels of anger coming from this man's soul felt unsafe.

  But he's my dad.

  “You're scaring me,” Nicolas told him. He should have walked away, but he didn't.

  “Leave me alone!” his dad snapped back, his voice rattling the inside of Nicolas’ skull. “I'm about to give you a reason to be scared if you don't leave me alone!”

  That was when Nicolas noticed the small, yet sharp knife in his dad’s hand, squeezing the handle so tightly that Nicolas momentarily wondered if he even knew he was still holding it. His voice became softer, breaking like the wall as tears fell from his eyes. “I have nothing to lose now, kid.”

  When the flashback faded, Nicolas’ eyes opened to find himself back in the crowhouse standing in front of the sink, his fist pressing right through the glass, into the bathroom on the other side.

  Through the mirror.

  Green lines ran through the surface, like glowing, almost imaginary-looking cracks; the reflection waving as every movement his arm made sent ripples through the surface.

  It is a window!

  Nicolas pulled his arm out, and the ripples faded as the green lines converged into a tiny, glowing dot where his hand had made contact; then, it faded also, like a star at dawn.

  I'm going crazy, Nicolas decided. This wasn't real; just like he didn't just relive his dad's anger at the world. He was losing his mind now.

  Nicolas moved his hand back toward the mirror, half expecting his reflection to suddenly appear and make everything make sense again.

  But even his own reflection seemed to have abandoned him.

  He touched the glass, and it rippled; like stepping into a puddle on the sidewalk. Those thin, glowing lines reappeared, rising out from where Nicolas’ finger pressed against the glass. They grew out only a few inches, before halting, like a small bust in the glass; as if Nicolas’ finger was a rock.

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  He slowly pressed his hand further in, then his arm. The crack-like lines grew across the mirror until they almost touched the wooden frame bordering the glass, glowing like those star stickers he used to have at their old house.

  He should’ve been scared. But now, he didn’t have anything to be scared of.

  Nicolas began opening and closing his fist, inspecting both sides carefully, as if he expected part of his hand to not be there; the rippling mirror making his fingers look distorted and odd.

  He pushed his arm further through, his curiosity helping him forget why he was here in the first place.

  I wonder what’s on the other side?

  He found himself stepping onto the sink, reaching even further into the mirror before he could fully convince himself he was crazy. He hesitated for a moment, then, took in a long inhale, as if he were about to swim down into the ocean, and pressed his head through the mirror.

  When he opened his tightly shut eyes, he was still in the old, forgotten bathroom, only now he was facing toward the door, not away from it.

  Nicolas slowly let out the breath he was holding, taking very tiny inhales until he was confident that at least he could breathe. Then, Nicolas stepped the rest of the way through, placing his feet onto the floor on the other side of the mirror.

  It looked the same. The old, dirt covered tiled floor, the ivy that grew along the doorway, the ceiling that was beginning to cave in; but there was something different. Maybe Nicolas had only imagined it, since it was almost unnoticeable. It felt like the air around him wasn't real; like he'd stepped out of the real world, and into a dream, or fairy tale. A very lonely fairy tale.

  The ivy looked like ivy, the floor looked no different, even the mildew and mold aroma smelled the same, but there was something different about it; like looking at a picture of a rainbow, versus actually seeing it. Hearing the ocean through a sea-shell, but not actually feeling the cold waves touch your toes.

  A cold breeze blew through the doorway: An uncanny, unrealistic coldness, like a refrigerator door being opened, but only in a dream.

  It was coming from something; beating through the air like ripples of ice-water.

  Nicolas didn’t know how he knew it, but he wasn’t alone anymore.

  There was someone here.

  “Hello?” he called out, but his voice sounded weird.

  It’s probably just an animal, he thought to himself. He turned back to the mirror, which reflected the world he’d just left: Yet it appeared exactly the same.

  "Who's here?" he called again, turning back toward the doorway that led to the hallway of the crowhouse. His voice sounded weird, muffled like he was talking into a pillow.

  Not even my reflection or echo want to be my friend.

  Nicolas took a small step toward the doorway, his heart starting to speed up as he thought about who could be here this late; and what they might be up to.

  He carefully took another step forward, realizing that if something stepped through that doorway, Nicolas would be completely cornered with nowhere to go: Unless he traveled back through the mirror.

  It’s a mirror, nitwit. They’ll still be there regardless of what side of it you’re on, right?

  This thought made him step backward again, tripping slightly and making his heart pulse with fear, like a self-inflicted jump-scare.

  Nicolas froze, letting the waves of ice-cold force pulse through his body as he hyperventilated. “Who’s there?” he called out, louder this time.

  When no one answered, Nicolas took a small step toward the doorway, trying to peek around to see if he could see anything.

  He carefully took another step, moving as quietly as he could and focusing hard on any possible sounds.

  The crowhouse seemed empty.

  But it wasn’t.

  That feeling of anger at the world began to return; the same anger he had when he punched the mirror. Nicolas took multiple steps forward, exiting the restroom and entering the living room. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” he was shouting quite loudly now, annoyed at whoever was disturbing his grieving.

  Nicolas didn’t expect a response, but he got one anyway.

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  Something hard collided with the back of his head, so hard that the already dark house turned from black and white, to red and purple. His phone hit the floor, bouncing and flashing the light in his eyes multiple times before landing on the screen, with the light facing up. Something pushed him from behind, and Nicolas fell over without much attempt to stop himself, his head pounding from pain and his heart pounding from fear.

  As soon as he hit the ground, he rolled onto his back to face his attacker, but all he could see was the shadowed silhouette of someone holding what Nicolas assumed to be a gun.

  “Who are you?” the person screamed, but there was something about their voice; Nicolas had heard it before.

  A long time ago.

  “Ash?!” his voice cracked from a mixture of panic and fear, relief and confusion, and heartbreak.

  “It’s me, Nicolas!”

  Now that he knew who it was, he could easily tell it was them. But Ash looked not at all relieved to see him. They lifted the object in their hands, the weapon that Nicolas could now see wasn’t a gun, but a baseball bat.

  “You’re not Nicolas,” Ash replied with almost a whisper. “Because the Nicolas I know is dead.”