Ellie stepped into the quiet house with a soft exhale , the kind that said "finally." Boxes half-unpacked, sunlight spilling through gauzy curtains, and for the first time in weeks, peace. She moved slowly, placing her books on the shelf, her plants by the window. This was supposed to be her fresh start.
Her phone buzzed
his name again. Her ex. She stared, sighed, and tossed it on the couch like it burned her hand. Not now.
She headed upstairs, needing her laptop. But something caught her eye — a mirror, tall and narrow, leaning against the hallway wall. Odd. She didn't remember packing that. Shrugging, she brushed it off and went back downstairs, setting up her workspace.
Evening fell fast. The glow outside dimmed to a melancholy blue. A sharp argument erupted her mother, as usual. The phone call left her raw, unravelled. The wounds ran deep; years of criticism, quiet neglect, endless comparisons. Her hand trembled as she hung up.
She turned to the kitchen, needing a drink, when, another mirror. This one sat in the hallway, square and old. She froze. That definitely wasn't there before. Her brows knitted.
"Maybe the previous owners left it," she muttered, pulling it down and shoving it behind the couch.
She made it to her room, wine in hand. One glass, then two. By the third, the weight in her chest dulled. She curled up, face slack with exhaustion. Sleep came heavy.