On the outside of the mirror. By Carlos del Puente

 On the outside of the mirror. In the quaint town of Willow's Bend, where the air smelled perpetually of freshly baked bread and the streets were lined with cobblestone, lived a man named Edward. Edward was peculiar in that he was as plain as the next person yet had an unmistakable presence. He was tall, with a stoop to his shoulders that suggested a lifetime of bending over books rather than tilling the soil. His eyes, a piercing blue, often peered out from behind spectacles that sat crookedly on his nose, as if they were trying to escape his scrutiny. His hair was a mess of gray waves, unruly and unkempt, a stark contrast to the meticulous way he kept his tiny bookshop. The bookshop itself was a sight to behold, nestled between a candy store and an apothecary. It was so small that one could miss it if not for the distinct creak of its door and the warm glow of candlelight that spilled out onto the street each evening. Within its walls were shelves upon shelves of books, their spines worn and their pages yellowed with time. Edward knew each book by heart, could recite passages with a dramatic flair that often left his customers entranced. There was something about his voice that made the words come alive, a magic that seemed to resonate within the very fabric of the shop. One peculiar book stood out among the rest, though no one in town knew it but Edward. It was an ancient tome bound in leather, its title written in an unfamiliar script. Edward had found it in a dusty corner of the shop's attic, left behind by the previous owner. The book's pages were filled with illustrations of a world that could only exist in the wildest of imaginations—creatures of myth, landscapes of impossible beauty, and a mirror that reflected more than just one's own visage. The mirror was said to be a gateway to another realm, one that was bound by the very stories contained within the book's pages. In quiet moments, when the shop was empty and the candles flickered low, Edward would pore over the tome, his heart racing with every new discovery. His curiosity grew to obsession, and he found himself unable to resist the siren call of the mirror's story. He knew that touching the pages would be unwise, but the temptation grew stronger with each passing day. His fingertips hovered just above the cool leather, yearning to trace the outline of the mirror. One evening, as the last customer left and the bell above the door jingled faintly in the distance, Edward made his decision. He turned the page with trembling hands, revealing the intricate depiction of the mirror. The illustration was so lifelike that he felt as if he could reach out and step through it into the other world. The mirror itself was framed in gold, reflecting a landscape of shimmering forests and skies that seemed to pulse with an inner light. As he studied the page, his reflection grew restless, distorting and stretching as if the mirror were reaching out to him. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of excitement and fear. He felt a sudden gust of wind, though the windows were closed tight against the approaching storm. The candles flickered wildly, casting shadows that danced across the bookshop's walls. With a deep breath, Edward reached out and touched the mirror in the illustration. The moment his fingertip made contact, the page began to ripple like water. The room around him grew dimmer, and the only sound was the blood rushing in his ears. He watched in amazement as the ripples grew larger, swelling until they enveloped the entire page. Then, with a sound like a thousand whispers, the mirror's surface grew fluid, and his hand slipped through the paper, into the heart of the story. The world around him changed in an instant. He was no longer in his familiar bookshop but standing in the very meadow depicted in the book. The air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers and the distant murmur of a babbling brook. The sky was alight with colors he had never seen before—blues that deepened to purple, greens that shimmered like emeralds, and yellows that seemed to burn with the intensity of the sun itself. He looked down at his hand, which was now enveloped in the page, and felt the coolness of the other side, a stark contrast to the warmth of the bookshop's candlelight. Edward stumbled back, trying to pull his hand free, but the paper had become as solid as the ground beneath his feet. Panic set in, his mind racing with the realization of what he had done. He had crossed over, into a realm that was not his own, and he had no idea how to return. He tried to call out, but his voice was swallowed by the silence, as if the very air was too thick for sound to pass through. He felt a strange tugging at his soul, as if the book itself were claiming him. As he struggled, the pages of the book began to flip rapidly, the images blurring together like scenes from a nightmare. The mirror's reflection grew more insistent, reaching out from the page like tendrils of smoke, coiling around his wrist, his arm, and finally his entire body. He felt his essence being drawn in, the very fabric of his being merging with the story. The colors grew more vivid, the sounds more intense, and the scents grew overpowering. The bookshop faded away, replaced by the verdant forest that surrounded the meadow. The creatures from the book's illustrations began to appear before him, their eyes gleaming with curiosity and a hint of menace. A unicorn with a coat that shimmered like moonlight approached cautiously, its horn reflecting the array of colors from the sky. A dragon, no larger than a housecat, perched on a nearby branch, watching him with a fiery gaze. Edward's heart raced, his mind a whirlwind of wonder and fear. The ground beneath him grew unsteady, and the trees around him began to shift and sway as if they were alive. The whispers grew louder, filling his head with a cacophony of voices that spoke in a language he could almost, but not quite, understand. The book's pages fluttered around him like leaves in a storm, and he felt himself being drawn deeper into the story. The tome itself grew larger, its leather binding stretching and contorting into the very fabric of the world around him. Edward knew he had to act fast, but his body was sluggish, as if the very essence of the book was weighing him down. He tried to remember the words from the story, the incantation that could possibly reverse his fate, but they eluded him. The creatures grew bolder, their curiosity turning to hunger. He stumbled backward, the mirror's pull growing stronger, when a sudden thought struck him. He had to find the mirror's twin in this world, the one that could serve as a gateway back to his own. The whispers grew to a crescendo, and the pressure around him mounted. The ground beneath his feet cracked open, revealing a chasm that led to a swirling abyss. The air grew colder, and the once-friendly forest morphed into a place of shadows and malice. Edward took a deep breath, steeling himself for the journey ahead. He had become a character in the book, and he would have to play by its rules if he ever hoped to escape. He stumbled through the twisted landscape, his heart hammering in his chest. The creatures grew more menacing, their eyes now gleaming with a hunger that sent chills down his spine. The whispers grew clearer, guiding him deeper into the heart of the story. It was as if the book had a mind of its own, bending the very fabric of reality to its will. As Edward pushed forward, the whispers grew into a chant, a rhythm that resonated within him. The words of the incantation slowly surfaced in his mind, a beacon of hope in the chaos. He had to find the mirror's twin, the one that could reflect his true self back to him and set him free. The forest grew denser, the trees closing in, their branches like the arms of a thousand menacing puppets, trying to pull him into the shadows.

By Carlos del Puente