In the downtown café of quiet whisperings, I found a seat opposite a version of myself that seemed entirely unfamiliar. The reflection stared back from the window, a pale echo trapped behind glass that warped ever so slightly.
"Who are you?" I asked hesitantly, to which it replied with a smile that creased its spectral visage. In that moment, my heart danced a tango of confusion, caught between the solidity of reality and the whimsical dream of being.
Outside, the rain painted rivers upon the glass, distorting the city beyond into a palette of muted colors and shadows. I pondered the reflections that flickered in the droplets—fragments of conversations that never happened, words spoken in halls not traversed, destinies playing out beyond my comprehension.
The reflection spoke again, this time in a voice that was both my own and yet not. It whispered secrets of parallel paths, where I walked statuesque in front of audience unseen, under skies neither blue nor gray, just a canvas of potential.
And then, in the dreaming light of an electric café lamp, I understood: The reflection was a mirror not of the face, but of the soul—a distorted self, shimmering in the funhouse of existence, urging me to step not just forward, but sideways into the maze.
Would you dare the labyrinth? Unravel further the knots of the self in another realm?
And so, the funhouse mirror remains, reflecting not what is seen, but what has always been just beyond the periphery of conscious thought.