I stopped screaming. It didn’t matter anymore — no one could hear me.
The mirrors stretched on endlessly, rows and rows of silent prisoners trapped in reflections that weren’t theirs. I wasn’t the first. I wouldn’t be the last.
The thing that wore my mom’s face circled me slowly, its hollow eyes never blinking. The wet sound of its bare feet sticking to the floor echoed in the quiet.
“You’re almost done,” it whispered, voice warping. “Almost empty enough.”
Empty. That’s exactly how I felt. My memories were flickering, disappearing one by one, like old photos burning in reverse.
I tried to hold onto something — my name, my life, anything — but the harder I tried, the more it slipped through me.
Then the mirror shifted.
It didn’t flicker this time. It changed.
My reflection was gone.
In its place was someone else. A boy. Younger than me, maybe 12 or 13, with messy hair and wide, terrified eyes. He banged on the glass, screaming silently, tears streaming down his face.
I recognized him.
He was the kid from the missing posters in my neighborhood. The one who vanished last year.
My stomach dropped.
The thing behind me chuckled, wet and gurgling.
“Not missing,” it said. “Just traded.”
The boy’s reflection flickered again.
And his face started to change. His hair darkened. His skin shifted. His eyes dulled.
He was becoming me.
I felt the pull again — stronger this time. Like a hook lodged behind my ribs.
I wasn’t supposed to watch this. I was supposed to let go.
But I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
I slammed my fists against the glass, harder than before. The mirror still didn’t crack, but the boy’s reflection twitched. His eyes widened.
He saw me.
He mouthed something.
"Help me."
My throat tightened. My hands shook.
The thing wearing my mom’s skin leaned close again, its cold breath curling against my ear.
“There’s no helping him,” it whispered. “He’s already yours now.”
The Stranger In My Photos 43