Hello. I'm calling about something that happened to me recently. Started about three months back, right after my seventy-fourth birthday. I live by myself now. Have for the last six years, since Harold passed. The house gets quiet, you know. You get used to it. My bedroom has this full-length mirror, antique piece with a cherry wood frame. Harold bought it at an estate sale back when we first moved to Connecticut. Forty-three years I've had that mirror. It's always just sat there in the corner by the window, catches the morning sun. The first time I noticed something strange, I was getting ready for bed. Normal evening, nothing unusual about it. I walked past the mirror and caught my reflection and something made me stop. I stood there looking at myself. And then my reflection winked at me. Not a twitch. Not tired eyes playing tricks. A slow, deliberate wink. Like we were sharing a secret.
I actually laughed at first. Thought I was more tired than I realized. But I remember standing there for a good while afterward, just staring at that mirror. My reflection looked back at me, normal as anything. I went to bed. Tried not to think about it. Two nights later it happened again. I was standing there putting on my nightgown, looked up, and there she was. She smiled at me. Not the same smile I was making. A different smile. Warmer. More aware. I touched my face and she touched hers, but there was this delay. Half a second behind. Like she was following my movements instead of mirroring them. That's when I started paying real attention. Every evening when I'd pass that mirror, I'd look for her. And she was always there, always just slightly off from what I expected. Sometimes she'd tilt her head before I did. Sometimes her expression would change too late.
By the third week, the differences got more obvious. I'd be wearing my blue cardigan and she'd be wearing my gray one. I'd have my reading glasses on and hers would be pushed up on her head. Small things, but they were there. One night I stood in front of that mirror for maybe twenty minutes just watching. She was doing mostly the same things I was doing. But there were these little variations. She'd brush her hair on the opposite side. Adjust her collar differently. It was like watching a version of myself who'd made slightly different choices. I started talking to her. I'd say good morning, good night, things like that. And I swear she'd respond. Not with words. Just these little gestures. A nod. A look that said she understood. After a while it felt normal. Natural. Like I'd found some kind of companion. Someone who knew what it was like to be me because she was living a parallel version of my life.
[ Story continues in the full game... ]