Reflections of the Lost Dawn

Chapter 2: The First Glimpse

"There is nothing more tragic than the first glimpse of what could have been."

— Euripides

The attic haunted me.

Not in the traditional sense—no ghosts or sudden noises—but the mirror had burrowed into my mind. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it: the faint outline of that figure in the reflection, standing still, waiting for something. Waiting for me, maybe.

A few days passed before I worked up the nerve to go back. I told myself I had just imagined it, that maybe my mind was playing tricks on me in the dim light of the attic. But deep down, I knew something was off.

It was early evening when I made my way up there again, this time more cautious than before. The familiar smell of old wood greeted me as I climbed the narrow staircase. The attic looked exactly the same: forgotten objects scattered everywhere, shrouded in layers of dust. Except for the mirror.

I couldn't take my eyes off it. The way it stood alone in the corner, almost commanding attention, unnerved me. Part of me wanted to smash it, get rid of it before it did something worse. But the other part... the other part was curious.

I approached it slowly, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. I stood before the mirror again, staring at my reflection. This time, there was nothing strange. Just me. But I knew better. The last time, the change had been gradual. Maybe it would be the same now.

I stepped closer, my breath fogging up the surface slightly. I didn’t dare touch it again, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away either. And then, just like before, it happened.

The room in the reflection shifted, subtly at first. It was almost like a shadow passing across the surface, but this time I paid close attention. The faint, glowing light from the sunset outside looked different in the reflection—brighter, warmer, almost too perfect. And then I saw it: a familiar face.

The shock hit me so hard I nearly fell backward. It was someone I hadn’t thought about in a long time. Yuu, my best friend from years ago.

We hadn’t spoken in what felt like forever, after he moved away suddenly when we were still in middle school. I remembered the last conversation we had—awkward, tense, like we both knew we wouldn’t see each other again. And we didn’t. Not until now, in the reflection.

But there he was, standing in the same attic, in the same spot where I was now. Except this wasn’t the Yuu I remembered. This Yuu was older, more confident. His clothes were different too—neater, more like what someone successful would wear.

I blinked, trying to shake off the vision, but he remained, as clear as day. He was laughing, his voice echoing faintly in my ears even though I wasn’t sure if it was real. And then he turned, looking directly at me—or at least the version of me in the reflection.

My heart hammered in my chest as I glanced over my shoulder. The attic was still empty. There was no Yuu, no laughter. Only silence. But in the mirror, he was still there. He stepped forward, as if about to speak.

I swallowed hard, feeling the chill of fear creep down my spine. My mouth opened, words forming before I could stop them. “Yuu?”

And then, the reflection flickered, like a bad signal on an old TV. The warmth, the light, the image of Yuu—it all vanished in an instant. I was left staring at my reflection again, but now my own eyes looked back at me, filled with confusion and dread.

I stumbled away from the mirror, my thoughts racing. What was this thing? Why did it show me Yuu? And why did he look... different? As if he had lived a life without me, a life I was never a part of.

My pulse pounded in my ears as I backed out of the attic. I didn’t look at the mirror again. I couldn’t. All I knew was that whatever I saw wasn’t normal. And something inside me whispered that this was only the beginning.