The Mirror in the Attic (Chapter 9)

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The Mirror in the Attic

A novella for readers young and old

By Jerry Liang & ChatGPT

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Chapter Nine: Return to Meilun

A week after Leo’s final night in the attic, the sky over Hualien broke open with early summer rain. The mango trees behind Grandma’s house swayed in the breeze, scattering their scent through the valley. The mirror now rested wrapped in cloth inside Leo’s backpack, along with the old photo and his journal.

It was time to return to Meilun Village.

The plan had been simple. Grandma would stay behind to rest — the stairs to the mountain paths had grown unfriendly to her knees — and Leo would go alone, with only the address scrawled on the back of a postcard and the memories humming like quiet song in his chest.

The bus dropped him off near the old bridge. From there, he walked.

The rain had softened into mist. Everything looked smaller than he remembered, yet somehow more alive. The path twisted between bamboo groves, and birds sang above as if announcing his return.

He passed the tiny market stall where he and Grandma used to buy sweet potato balls. It had closed long ago, but the faded red paper lantern still hung from the rafters, stubborn in the wind. He paused and imagined Grandma as a young mother, holding his hand, laughing as he pointed to the biggest sweet.

And then he saw it.

The house.

Perched at the bend in the creek, just as she’d described — white walls, tiled roof, and a wooden porch where laundry once danced in the breeze.

It was abandoned.

The front door hung slightly ajar, and vines crept up the side like a green memory trying to reclaim its home.

Leo stepped through the threshold, careful not to disturb the silence.

Inside, dust blanketed the furniture. A small wooden chair sat near the fireplace, and a kettle rusted on the stove. On the wall, crooked and barely clinging to its nail, was a photograph of a child — not him, not Grandma — but someone with the same gentle eyes.

He wandered room to room. Each one was like a shell, hollowed by time, but echoing with stories.

Finally, he reached the back room.

There, under the soft light that fell through the cracked window, stood another mirror.

Not the same one — this one was oval, framed in bamboo, its surface fogged with age. Still, Leo walked to it, unwrapped the silver mirror from his bag, and placed it on the small table in front of the older one.

Two mirrors, facing each other.

Time looking at time.

He sat down cross-legged on the floor and waited. He didn’t expect anything to happen. He just… listened.

The rain returned, tapping softly on the roof.

And then he heard it — not from the mirror, but from his own breath:

"Remember. And carry forward."

The same voice that had echoed through the forest.

The voice of the child.

The voice of the grandmother.

The voice of himself.

He took out his notebook and began to write — not for school, not for a contest — just to capture what shouldn’t be forgotten.

He wrote about the attic.

About the photo.

About walking through the forest of memory.

He wrote about fear, and about wonder.

About how sometimes, the only way to grow is to look backward and forward at once.

When he finished, hours had passed.

The light had changed.

And yet, Leo felt no need to rush.

Before leaving, he took a final look at the two mirrors, gently bowed to the house, and stepped outside.

The path home felt new.

And he felt new within it.

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