The envelope is black—charred around the edges, as if it had passed through fire. Your name is written in your own handwriting, only slightly off, the strokes sharper, more deliberate.

When you unfold the letter, the paper hums faintly in your hands. It’s warm, pulsing like something alive.

To: Me

From: Me

If you’re reading this, the barrier is failing. The echoes have begun crossing over. They know what I did—what we did.

You must not let them find the mirror. It exists in your world too. I buried the coordinates in something you still have: our old journal. The one with the pressed silver leaf between its pages.

I can’t explain everything. They’ll intercept the transmission if I say too much. But you’ll understand once you find the second entry we never finished.

Remember: the reflections lie, but the shadows tell the truth.

—E.

You read it twice. The words refuse to settle into sense. “Reflections lie…”

Your reflection, staring back from the window, tilts its head half a second late.

Outside, the world feels a degree off. The sky’s color—too deep. The air—too still. You pull open the drawer where you keep your old journals, half-expecting nothing. But it’s there: the faded leather cover, the pressed silver leaf glinting faintly like it’s been waiting.

The second entry is blank—except for an indentation where words had once been. Under light, faint graphite trails shimmer into view:

Beneath the bridge where the trains no longer run.

You know the place. It’s been abandoned for years.

You glance again at your reflection. It’s smiling now.

The envelope is black—charred around the edges, as if it had passed through fire. Your name is written in your own handwriting, only slightly off, the strokes sharper, more deliberate.

When you unfold the letter, the paper hums faintly in your hands. It’s warm, pulsing like something alive.

To: Me

From: Me

If you’re reading this, the barrier is failing. The echoes have begun crossing over. They know what I did—what we did.

You must not let them find the mirror. It exists in your world too. I buried the coordinates in something you still have: our old journal. The one with the pressed silver leaf between its pages.

I can’t explain everything. They’ll intercept the transmission if I say too much. But you’ll understand once you find the second entry we never finished.

Remember: the reflections lie, but the shadows tell the truth.

—E.

You read it twice. The words refuse to settle into sense. “Reflections lie…”

Your reflection, staring back from the window, tilts its head half a second late.

Outside, the world feels a degree off. The sky’s color—too deep. The air—too still. You pull open the drawer where you keep your old journals, half-expecting nothing. But it’s there: the faded leather cover, the pressed silver leaf glinting faintly like it’s been waiting.

The second entry is blank—except for an indentation where words had once been. Under light, faint graphite trails shimmer into view:

Beneath the bridge where the trains no longer run.

You know the place. It’s been abandoned for years.

You glance again at your reflection. It’s smiling now.