But she knows.
She knows what this is.
Not a gift.
Not a message.
A memory.
A piece of her life gone missing and returned like a dog left on the doorstep — changed, silent, marked, carrying something in its eyes that can’t be unlearned.
I watch her hand hover over the mirror’s edge like she’s afraid it might talk back. Like it’ll show her something she’s not ready to see. Something inside her.
Or worse — something of me.
And that’s the point.
That’s always been the point.
I don’t stalk. I collect. I gather the quiet, discarded parts people forget to protect. The things they throw away. The things they leave behind without realising how much power they still hold. I take them before anyone else can. I keep them safe. I hold them close. And then I give them back when they’ve forgotten what it’s like to own themselves.
It’s not possession.
It’s reintroduction.
She thought she knew who she was before I touched her.
But I don’t need to touch her to ruin her.
She’s already unraveling.
The camera watches as she lifts the mirror again. Stares into it, shoulders tense, breath shallow, spine stiff like she’s waiting for a blow that never comes.
Her reflection is different now.
Not because of the glass.
Because of the way she looks at herself. Like she’s trying to find out where I live under her skin. Like she’s wondering how deep the rot goes, and whether it was always there or if I put it there myself.
She doesn’t look scared.
She looks haunted.
Good.
That’s the beginning.
That’s where the want lives.
In the silence after the shock wears off.
In the stillness where the victim starts to ask, not why me, but what now — when fear stops being the loudest thing in the room and curiosity takes its place.
I lean back in my chair.
Breathe in the sound of her unraveling — the soft hitch of breath, the barely-there movement of her fingers, the wayher posture shifts like she’s already accommodating something invisible.
And smile.
