In the autumn of 1992, I was a night clerk at The Summit Inn, a roadside motel perched on a ridge above the town of Lost Creek, West Virginia. It was the kind of place where the vacancy sign flickered at 3 AM, and the parking lot held one or two cars at most—truckers, drifters, people who didn't want to be asked questions. Room 9 was a single with a queen bed, a television that only got two channels, and a full-length mirror mounted to the closet door. The couple who checked in that Thursday came without luggage, paid in cash, and left by morning. But the mirror stayed the same. It never changed. The glass seemed to remember what it had seen. And for the next three nights, the mirror showed me things that didn't happen in this world. A story about what a reflection can hold when no one is looking, and what happens when it decides to look back.

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