My phone screen lights up by itself, casting a ghastly glow across the ceiling. A notification: "Recording saved." I haven’t touched my phone in hours. My pulse hammers in my throat as I reach for it, hands shaking, the air suddenly too cold, too sharp.

I play the recording. My own voice, whispering, breathless: "Are you there?" A pause. Then, unmistakably, my voice again, but wrong — too flat, too slow. "I am here." I freeze, staring at the phone. I do not remember saying those words.

I stand, glancing at the mirror. My reflection watches me, attentive, eyes just a little too wide. I lift my hand. The reflection follows, but the fingertips linger a heartbeat longer than they should, as if savoring the motion.

I whisper into the silence, "Who’s there?" My voice sounds hollow, swallowed by the hush. The tapping stops. From the mirror, my reflection’s lips curve, the wrong way, into a smile I do not remember practicing.

I reach for it, but pause. I notice, in the glass of the water bottle, a second reflection — my eyes, but blinking out of sync, watching me watch myself. I back away, breath shallow, heart stuttering. I realize I am not alone in this room, or in my skin.

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my hands, unsure which movements are truly mine. The last thing I hear is a whisper, my voice not quite right, curling from the mirror: "Now you see me." If you look long enough, it will look back.