The hospital mirror was wrong.
It wasn't fear. Not immediately.It was a quiet, unsettling awareness — like reading a word spelled correctly, yet carrying the wrong meaning.
She stared at the reflection for far too long.
The face was… similar. The shape of the eyes, the line of the jaw, the mouth. Everything resembled who she was supposed to be, yet nothing truly aligned. Small discrepancies betrayed the flaw: a nose slightly narrower, a left eyebrow arched too high, a faint scar near the chin she didn't remember earning.
She touched her face.
The skin reacted. The reflection followed.
Still, it wasn't her.
The hospital tag beside the bed confirmed what her mind refused to accept: the same name, the same surname. A detail that should have been reassuring, yet only deepened the discomfort. It felt as if someone had copied her identity with care… and still gotten it wrong.
The room smelled of antiseptic and silence. The steady beep of the machines marked time for a body that functioned without permission. Everything was too white. Too clean. Too impersonal to be comforting.
She closed her eyes.
Tried to remember before.
There had been a life. She was certain of that. A clearly defined "before." But memories came fragmented, without sequence — like pages torn from a book someone else was still reading somewhere far away.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
She opened her eyes instantly.
— Has she woken up? — a woman's voice asked softly from beyond the door.
Her heart raced.
The word she sounded wrong. Distant.
The door opened slowly.
The woman entered first.
There was something about her that vaguely resembled the reflection in the mirror. The same facial structure. The same hair color. The resemblance was undeniable — and deeply unsettling, almost deliberate.
— Hi, sweetheart — the woman said, approaching the bed. Her smile was far too warm for such a sterile place. — How are you feeling?
Sweetheart.
Her body reacted before her mind did. A subtle shift in posture. A restrained breath. As if this flesh remembered something she did not.
— Confused — she answered honestly.
The woman nodded, as though that response had been expected.
— That's normal after what happened.
She frowned.
— What happened?
For a brief moment — too brief — the woman's smile faltered.
— The accident — she said. — The doctors said you might have memory lapses.
The word was chosen carefully.
Before she could ask more, a man entered the room. Tall. Rigid posture. Eyes far too alert for someone who was supposed to be relieved.
— We're glad you're awake — he said, stepping closer. — We were worried.
We.
She studied them in silence.
— You are…?
The woman placed a hand over her chest.
— We're your family.
The air grew heavier.
— Your parents — the man added.
Something inside her tightened.
She felt no recognition. No comfort. Only pressure — as if that information were being forced into a space that didn't exist.
— You know my name — she said slowly.
— Of course we do — the woman replied too quickly. — We chose it.
The man shot her a sharp look.
— What your mother means is… we've always been here.
Silence.
She looked away — and noticed something.
At the back of the woman's neck, partially hidden by her tied hair, there was a symbol.
Simple. Geometric. Etched into the skin like an old scar or a faded tattoo. The moment she saw it, something pulsed inside her mind — an incomplete, painful memory.
— What is that? — she asked, pointing.
The atmosphere shifted.
Not physically, but the air thickened. The woman instinctively raised a hand to her neck.
— Nothing — she replied too fast. — Something old.
The man stepped closer.
— You shouldn't strain yourself right now — he said firmly. — The doctors recommended rest.
She swallowed.
— I dreamed — she said suddenly.
Both of them froze.
— Dreamed of what? — the woman asked, trying to sound casual.
She stared at them.
— Of a place that wasn't here. Of a life that wasn't this one.
The silence was deafening.
— Those dreams… — the man began. — They've happened before.
A chill crawled up her spine.
— So you knew.
The woman smiled — but the smile never reached her eyes.
— We just want to protect you.
They moved toward the door.
— Rest — the man said. — Soon, you'll be going home.
The door closed.
The machine's beeping sounded louder.
She slowly turned her head toward the mirror mounted on the opposite wall.
For a second — just one — the reflection didn't follow her movement.
She blinked.
The reflection blinked afterward.
The reflection smiled.
It wasn't her smile.
A thought formed with terrifying clarity:
That body wasn't just a mistake.
It was a place.
A place where something had already been.
And perhaps… still was.
From the corridor, voices of doctors speaking in hushed tones. One of them mentioned her full name, followed by a sentence that made her blood run cold:
— Stabilization was successful. The identity is… consistent.
In the mirror, the woman wearing her name tilted her head, watching her.
As if waiting for something.