The Reflections of The Lost

They called it my “room,” but it never felt like mine. I was a guest, a stranger in a house full of unspoken histories and half-hearted welcomes.

The people who lived here were supposed to be my family, but everything about this place made me feel like I didn’t belong. This room—cold, dusty, and forgotten—was all I was offered in the name of home. I wasn’t supposed to ask questions —But the silence in the walls whispered too many secrets.

And I was never good at ignoring whispers.

The moment I stepped in, time felt wrong. Like I had slipped backward through the years. The air was heavy, saturated with neglect. Cobwebs curled like ancient scars across the ceiling, and dust blanketed the floor in layers so thick they muffled even my breath. Still, something about the room felt… disturbed. Like someone had been here recently, but never dared to stay.

The bed stood rigid, the lamps unlit and tired. But it was the dresser that caught my eye. Or rather, the mirror above it. It wasn't ornate or magical at first glance—just old, slightly cracked at the corner, framed in peeling wood. I’ve never cared for mirrors. Fashion was never my thing—if it’s clean and not embarrassing, it’s good enough. Sparkles, dresses? Not my world. But there was something about this mirror. Something that pulled me closer.

And yet, I couldn’t look away.

My gaze locked on the reflection—on her. She had my face: long hair, round cheeks, but her eyes—they weren’t mine. They shimmered with an unnatural turquoise, flecked with teal, as if the ocean had been captured and frozen inside them.

I leaned in closer.

She smiled.

And then she spoke.

"What are you staring at?"

I stumbled backward, heart in my throat. “Your eyes,” I whispered, breathless. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

The girl in the mirror rolled her eyes. “Of course. Everyone always stares at the eyes first. Spectral mirrors are so outdated.”

Spectral mirror? This was sounding too much like a dark twist on a fairytale. “So, do you like… tell people if they’re the fairest of them all?” I asked, mostly joking.

She scoffed. “Please. I help people figure out what to wear. You know, fashion advice, styling... purpose. But not that you’d care.”

She wasn’t wrong. My knowledge of trends was as dead as the flowers outside this mansion. Still, something pulled at me—a thread unraveling quietly in my chest.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

Her smile faded. A long silence stretched between us before she spoke again, this time softer.

“I’ve been alone. For so long. People stopped looking. Stopped asking. I don’t even remember how long it’s been...”

She looked away, blinking rapidly.

“Do you have a name?

She hesitated. Then nodded. “Elowen. Elowen Owen Ruwen.”

The name hit me like a slap of cold wind.

Elowen.

The name whispered in family arguments. The girl my adoptive parents used to mention in passing, always followed by uncomfortable silence. The one people said I resembled. The one who died… in an accident they never explained. My knees buckled slightly as the truth unraveled around me.

“You’re her…” I choked.

She just looked at me, and for a moment, her turquoise eyes shimmered—not with light, but with longing.

“I didn’t want to leave,” she said quietly.

“But I couldn’t stay. Not really. So, I stayed here.”

I reached toward the glass. She didn’t flinch this time.

For the first time in years, the room felt warmer.

Not mine.

But not so foreign anymore.