Forgotten Mirrors

It wasn't like Ethan wanted to go back to the attic filled with his childhood ghosts. But he was grown now, and if he wanted to sell the place, he'd have to face old shadows. Summer's breeze couldn't chase away the weight as he hauled himself up those creaky steps, the air growing thick and stale the higher he went. Images of forgotten Halloween masks and an abandoned rocking horse clicked in the back of his mind. Finally up there, among musty toys and dusty photo albums, he came upon something he didn't quite recall. A mirror, inexplicably out of place. The frame was wrought iron, curling like vines frozen in winter's grasp. The glass seemed ancient, tarnished with streaks and spots that told of time's passage. 'Ethan...' His name echoed softly around the attic, but it was his own voice, wasn't it? No, something was off. Mirrors were supposed to reflect your present, not the echoes of your voice. He stepped closer, unsure why his hand reached out without permission. His fingers brushed it, and the world went sideways. The attic shimmered like sunlight on water, and suddenly, the sounds of laughter mingled with the quiet hum of a birthday party he'd long forgotten, a shadow of a memory from when he was barely ten. The world was off balance, and the him from then, not quite a memory nor entirely real, danced with a party hat slipping over his eyes. Yet, it was the scene not reflecting back in the mirror that sent a chill charting down his spine. His father's laughter — warm yet wounded, resounded, a harbinger of the storm it hid. The boy from the past paused, sensing Ethan's presence. "You left me here, Ethan." Ethan stumbled backward, like clockwork had broken and shadows came alive to wrap their tendrils around him. He blinked, the attic was back - but not just any attic. It was his profound guilt, bundled and buried deep, swirling back to claim him. “Dad?” His voice tremored, breaking the silence. He was not prepared for his mother’s whisper in response. “You promised.” Images, obsessive and vivid like an old film reel, spun around him. There was Dad’s workshop where they spent countless hours building things, until his father's hands just disappeared one day. Vanished without explanations, carried away by distant responsibilities. Hopes dimmed in restrictive chest pains he’d tucked away, forgotten, over how unfulfilled promises left hearts glazed with rust. The attic filled with shadows that were more than mere figments. The mirror pulled him again. This time a dim living room, Christmas perhaps, gifts unopened, his parents deep in discussions he shouldn’t hear. It was their last Christmas together. His fractured, youthful self stood by without comment. A crack caught his attention. He hesitated only briefly, before taking the mirror's handle again. Holding it, somehow, symbolized clasping broken pieces of family. And then he was there, standing in front of his aged reflection, dripping memories pooling at his feet. "Enough." His voice rose clear and crisp this time. His father emerged, neither young nor aged, concealing neither shame nor affection. Ethan withstood it, quivering but resilient. "Dad," he breathed, "I'm sorry." With an ethereal shift, the room trembled and settled. Shadows dissipated, leaving behind trinkets forgotten too long. Tears traced iron roots running deep inside familial soil. The attic was just an attic now, sun illuminating sparkling dust floats, and that antique mirror now presented simply his worn reflection. He cried, truly let himself cry. As afternoon eventually waned, Ethan stepped back towards the daylight with no memento's baggage. Promises were built stronger with echoes, though foolishly all-consuming at age ten. That night, he slept unburdened, no stranger to gut-wrenching apologies and their curious restarts. **“I was never alone,” he finally realized.**