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Some houses don't wait for guests. They wait for themselves.
The words of the sandy path still echoed in Mirea's mind as the fog lifted before her and the forest opened into a kind of clearing, unlit by any sun. It was as if light itself had forgotten how to cast shadows. In the middle of this silent expanse stood a house—or rather, an echo of one. It had clear contours, yet they seemed strangely fluid, as if built from memory. The windows reflected not the outside, but an inside that perhaps had never existed. Mirea stepped closer. Her cat stayed behind, its fur bristling, its gaze drawn in all directions. The house had no door. Only a mirrored surface, so smooth that at first she saw herself—and then not. For the reflection moved differently. It looked at her—not as one looks at oneself, but as one is looked at by someone who knows one. The Mirea in the glass wore the same hat, the same clothes. But there was something old, questioning in her eyes. The surface of the mirror vibrated slightly. Mirea placed her hand on the glass. It was cool, then warm, then nothing. And she stepped through. The interior wasn't a house. It was a space of silence. The walls were made of more mirrors, but none showed her. Instead, they showed rooms where other Mireas stood—laughing, crying, fighting, writing, sleeping. A hallway led deeper, and with every step she heard fleeting words, spoken by voices that sounded like her own, but didn't come from her mouth. "I just wanted to forget who I was supposed to be." "When I dream, I am many." "He who lives in the mirror knows no way out." In one room stood a table with a clock without hands. On a chair sat a Mirea with closed eyes. As Mirea approached, the other slowly opened her eyelids. "I am the one who didn't go out," she said softly. "And I am the one who came back," Mirea answered. They sat down opposite each other. The cat had followed Mirea, but had changed. Its reflection was silver, as if made of liquid moonlight. "This house dreams itself," said the other Mirea. "It collects possibilities. Not because it has forgotten—but because it wants to remember." "And what am I here then?" asked Mirea. The answer came not as words, but as light: The mirrors began to turn, slowly, like gears on an invisible clock. Each one turned an image—not made of glass, but of things seen but never lived. Mirea stood up. The other remained seated and closed her eyes again. Leaving the room, she saw herself once more in one of the mirrors. Only this time it was really her. And yet—a shadow in her gaze had changed. Perhaps it had only stretched. Perhaps it had awakened. Outside, the fog had returned. The mirrored wall behind her had disappeared. The cat stepped to her side, its gaze alert, alive again. And the house? It was no longer there. Perhaps it had never been here. But somewhere, in a frameless mirror, Mirea had said something to herself. And she would hear it again—someday, when the house began to dream again.