The Mirror in the Attic (Chapters 5~6)

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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 Five: The Photograph Box

The next day, a cool rain swept through the village.

Fat droplets tapped gently against the windows, turning the garden into a blur of green and gray. Leo curled up in the living room with a wool blanket and a cup of sweet ginger tea Grandma had made. Abei lay beside him, purring softly, as if content to nap away the weather.

But Leo’s mind was elsewhere — still halfway inside the attic.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the locked drawer.

What memory had he hidden? Why had he wanted to forget it?

He reached for his notebook and flipped through the sketches he’d made: the attic’s glowing beams, the mirror’s first shimmer, the drawer labeled Stormy Day with Dad. His pencil hovered for a moment, then moved almost on its own, sketching a small key — delicate, almost fragile, with a star at its handle.

“Maybe,” he whispered to himself, “the key isn’t something you find. Maybe it’s something you make.”

Later that afternoon, when the rain turned to a drizzle, Leo wandered into Grandma’s storage room downstairs — a dim corner of the house filled with forgotten trunks and fabric-covered boxes. He hadn’t explored it in years.

Under a wooden cabinet, he discovered an old metal tin — rusted around the corners, its label faded.

He lifted the lid.

Inside were dozens of black-and-white photographs, yellowed at the edges. Most had curled corners and fading ink, but they were full of life: Grandma as a teenager in a qipao dress; Grandpa leaning against a bicycle, grinning; his father as a boy, half-smiling and barefoot.

He sorted through them slowly, studying every detail — the background trees, the toys on the ground, the expressions in their eyes.

Then, at the very bottom, he found a photograph that made him sit up straight.

It was himself, about six or seven years old, sitting at a table with a birthday cake in front of him. But he wasn’t smiling.

His parents were in the picture too — his mother clapping, his father leaning forward with a lighter. But Leo could tell that, even in the photo, something was wrong. The distance in his father’s eyes, the way Leo’s own hands gripped the chair — tense, uncertain.

He had no memory of this moment.

None at all.

He flipped the photo over. Written in Grandma’s neat hand were the words: “Leo’s 7th birthday – before everything changed.”

Before everything changed?

The phrase echoed in his chest like a dropped stone.

Leo put the photo back carefully and sat in silence. Rain tapped against the roof again, steady and soft.

Something about that birthday had been buried deep. Perhaps it was the key to the locked drawer. Perhaps it was the drawer.

That night, Leo stood in front of the mirror again.

“I want to go back,” he said aloud. “To remember… even the parts I’ve tried to forget.”

For a moment, the glass stayed still. Then, it began to shimmer like moonlight rippling on water. A warm wind stirred in the attic, though no windows were open. Leo saw his own reflection blink — and then, it wasn’t his face anymore.

It was the younger Leo.

The boy in the birthday photo.

His eyes met Leo’s across the years. He looked scared… but hopeful.

And the mirror answered — not with words, but with a feeling: a deep hum in Leo’s chest, as if the attic itself was saying, Come. You’re ready.

The glass parted like a curtain.

Leo stepped through.

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Chapter Six: The Night of the Wind

The attic welcomed him once more.

This time, however, it was different.

The air was darker, heavier. The golden sunlight had faded into a twilight blue. Shadows stretched longer. The ceiling creaked as if whispering secrets. The memory drawers were still there, but some were now open, their contents glowing faintly.

The locked drawer remained sealed, still humming with quiet energy.

Leo walked past it, deeper into the attic — farther than he’d gone before.

A long corridor of mirrors now extended from the far wall, each one tall and narrow, like doors standing on edge. Each mirror reflected a moment — some clear, others fogged with time.

He stopped in front of one that shimmered at the edges.

The reflection showed the birthday scene again — the same one from the photograph.

Leo hesitated. Then, placing his hand against the glass, he was drawn in.

The attic melted away.

He was in the kitchen of his old home. The table was set with a chocolate cake, some half-used paper streamers, and party plates. His mother bustled about, smiling too widely. His father stood by the window, smoking in silence.

Leo — the seven-year-old version — sat stiffly in a chair, looking at the floor.

“No friends this year?” he heard himself say.

Mother looked at Father. Father looked away.

“Everyone’s busy, sweetie,” she said. “It’s raining. We’ll have fun just the three of us.”

But Leo remembered it now — the truth.

He had invited two classmates. They had said yes. But no one came.

He remembered the embarrassment, the heat in his cheeks, the way he’d stuffed a whole slice of cake in his mouth so no one could see him crying.

And he remembered the argument.

His parents had waited until after the candles were blown out.

“You could’ve helped more,” Mother had snapped.

“You planned it all without asking me,” Father retorted. “Don’t blame me when—”

“—when no one shows up? When he sits there alone?”

Leo remembered the sound of the door slamming. The silence that followed. The weight of guilt settling over his small shoulders, as if it were his fault.

Back in the attic, the vision faded.

Leo knelt in front of the locked drawer.

“I’m ready now,” he whispered.

And this time, the drawer clicked open.

Inside was a crumpled party invitation. Handmade, drawn in crayon. His own handwriting.

Leo touched it gently, and something inside him — something old and tight — unclenched.

He saw it clearly now: the loneliness he had carried for years, hidden beneath smiles and jokes. The belief that maybe he wasn’t worth showing up for. That belief had shaped how he saw himself — but it was never true.

He breathed deeply.

The attic felt warmer.

The mirrors along the corridor shimmered softly. The drawers closed themselves, one by one.

And Leo — older Leo — stood taller.

He wasn’t just visiting memories now. He was healing them.

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