The Mirror in the Attic (Chapters 3~4)

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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 Three: Grandma’s Garden

The attic felt quieter after Leo returned through the mirror. He touched the floor where he had landed and looked back — but the glass now showed only his own reflection again. No glowing sunlight, no paper butterflies. Just him.

Still, something had changed.

His fingers tingled faintly. The scent of the other world clung to his shirt — fresh mint and wild jasmine. He glanced around the attic, half-expecting the younger version of himself to be hiding behind a box, giggling.

But there was only the creak of old beams and the soft meow of Abei, who had finally dared to climb up.

Leo patted the cat. “You wouldn’t believe what I just saw.”

The next morning, sunlight poured in through the kitchen windows as Leo helped Grandma slice bananas and prepare peanut toast. The smell of roasted peanuts and fresh fruit filled the air.

“I’m thinking of visiting the garden today,” Leo said casually. “Maybe draw or... write something.”

Grandma raised an eyebrow. “That’s new. Usually, you’re glued to your phone.”

He smiled, a little sheepishly. “Thought I’d try something different this time.”

Outside, the garden looked wilder than he remembered. Not unkempt — just alive. Guava trees leaned gently over the path. Passionfruit vines wrapped around the low wooden fence. And the plum tree, the one Grandpa had planted before Leo was even born, stood tall near the back wall, its branches full of tiny green fruit.

He sat down on the old wooden bench, notebook in hand. For a few minutes, he simply listened.

Bees buzzed lazily among hibiscus flowers. A frog croaked somewhere near the lotus pond. The wind whispered through bamboo leaves, like an old lullaby half-forgotten.

Then Leo heard something else — faint, distant — humming.

A tune he remembered. One Grandma used to sing when he was very young.

He turned toward the house and saw her kneeling by a flowerbed, pulling weeds. Her lips moved with the song.

“Grandma,” he said, walking over. “Can I ask you something? Do you remember a mirror in the attic?”

She paused, her hands brushing soil from her palms. Her expression turned thoughtful.

“A mirror?” she repeated, not in confusion, but with quiet recognition. “Yes… That mirror belonged to my grandmother. It was already old when I was a child.”

“Did you ever… see anything in it?”

She chuckled gently. “Like ghosts or fairies?”

Leo hesitated. “Like another world. Or another version of yourself.”

Grandma wiped her hands on her apron and stood. “I’ve seen many things in that mirror, Leo. Mostly memories. But once in a while… it shows more than memories. Especially to those who still believe.”

Leo’s heart skipped. “Believe in what?”

“In dreams,” she said softly. “In wonder. In the things you carry inside, even when you stop noticing them.”

She walked back toward the house, but then turned and added, “Be careful, Leo. That mirror doesn’t just show who you are — it helps you remember who you’ve been… and who you might become.”

Leo stood still for a long moment. Then he looked down at the notebook in his hand. On the page, without realizing, he had drawn the attic — both versions of it — in clear detail.

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Chapter Four: The Memory Drawer

That night, the attic beckoned again.

Leo waited until Grandma had gone to bed. The floorboards creaked under his feet as he climbed the stairs, flashlight in hand. Abei trailed behind him, tail twitching with curiosity.

The mirror stood exactly where it had before, unmoving — but no longer just a mirror.

It felt like a door.

Leo touched the glass, and once again, it rippled beneath his fingers. The world shimmered, spun, and folded inward — and in an instant, he found himself back in the glowing attic.

This time, it looked different.

The walls were lined with shelves, each filled with small wooden drawers. Hundreds of them, arranged like a giant library catalog. Some drawers were labeled with names — “Moonlight,” “First Bike Ride,” “Stormy Day with Dad.” Others were marked with single words like “Fear,” “Hope,” “Wonder.”

Leo stepped closer and pulled out a drawer at random. Inside was a small wooden top — painted blue and yellow — the kind he used to spin as a child.

The moment he touched it, a memory burst open in his mind.

He was six years old, sitting on the floor beside Grandpa. They were on the porch, sunlight flickering through the trees. Grandpa showed him how to flick the top just right to make it dance. Leo could feel the warm wood under his fingers, smell the oolong tea in Grandpa’s cup.

The memory was so vivid it brought tears to his eyes.

He closed the drawer carefully and reached for another.

This one held a smooth black stone, shaped like a teardrop.

As he touched it, a sad memory surfaced — the day Abei got lost during a typhoon. Leo had cried into his pillow, certain the cat was gone forever. But the next day, Grandma found Abei hiding under the porch, wet but unharmed. Leo remembered the joy, the relief, and the way he hugged the grumpy cat until they both fell asleep.

Each drawer was a part of him — moments he had lived, loved, or almost forgotten.

But then, he noticed one drawer set apart from the others.

It was locked.

There was no label on it, just a faint engraving of a single mirror.

Leo tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge.

He turned and found the younger version of himself watching quietly from a distance.

“What’s in that drawer?” Leo asked.

“That one’s harder,” the younger Leo replied. “It holds a memory you’re not ready to see yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because you locked it away yourself,” the boy said gently. “But one day, you’ll be strong enough to open it.”

Leo nodded slowly. “Is there a key?”

“There’s always a key. Sometimes it just takes time to find it.”

They sat in silence for a while.

Then Leo asked, “Do you come here often?”

The younger Leo shrugged. “Only when you remember I exist.”

Leo turned to look at the shelves again — a thousand drawers, a thousand stories.

He realized something important: the attic was more than just a place of magic. It was a library of the heart. A place where every moment mattered, even the small ones. Maybe especially the small ones.

When he finally returned through the mirror, Abei was still there, blinking lazily on the windowsill.

Leo whispered, “Do you think cats remember their memories too?”

Abei blinked once, then stretched and trotted away — as if to say, Some things are better left unsaid.

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