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His meetings with spectral versions of himself. Carlos del Puente Stories,
sábado, mayo 10, 2025His meetings with spectral versions of himself.
John looked in the mirror, with injected and tired eyes, the dark circles under them a marked contrast with their pale skin. His reflection looked back, without blinking and silent, a simple echo of inner agitation. The wall clock marked the seconds with a rhythmic persistence that seemed to make fun of his fatigue. The room was small and crowded, the thick air with the aroma of rancid coffee and the weak smell of something burning in the kitchen.
He extended his hand to touch the cold glass, his hand trembling slightly. The mirror was not only a reflection of its physical form, but a window to its fragmented soul. Every day he showed him something new, something that could never be seen. It was as if the universe itself was interpreting a cruel trick, presenting visions of his past, his present and whispers of his future, all wrapped in a single look without blinking.
The fingertips of John graze the surface, and suddenly, the image in front of him changed. The lines of his face became more clear, his eyes are a penetrating blue he had never seen before. His heart accelerated when the stranger in the mirror began to move, imitating each of his gestures with a mysterious precision that sent him a chill through the spine. He tried to get away, but his hand remained attached to the glass, his body froze in his place as the spectral appearance became bolder.
The reflection spoke, his voice is a chilling echo. "You're not alone, John," he said, the words that resonate in the room. "We are many, and we are one." Panic arose through him when he realized that he not only looked at himself, but to a legion of other Jons, each with his own stories, his own pains, his own destinations. The mirror had become an entrance door to an endless realm, a place where the fabric of reality was unearthed and rotated by the hands of the destination itself.
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