The Mirror in the Attic (Chapters 7~8)

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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 Seven: The World Beneath the Glass

The world beyond the mirror was not quite a dream, nor was it entirely real. It shimmered with a golden softness, as if time had slowed just enough for everything to feel precious. When Leo stepped forward, the air felt thick, like warm honey. The attic was gone. So was the creaking floor, the musty smell of old books, and even the lantern’s glow. In their place was a forest — familiar, yet different.

Tall trees, just like the ones near Meilun Creek, rose around him, their branches shimmering with dew that caught the light like tiny mirrors. The sound of birdsong echoed gently between the trunks, but it wasn’t the kind he knew. It was more musical, almost like whispers.

Leo looked down.

His hands were smaller.

He touched his cheeks — smooth and soft. He was a boy again. Not the boy in the photo, not exactly — but someone close. Someone who remembered what it was like to race the wind without worrying where it might take him.

In the stillness, he heard footsteps.

Turning, he saw someone running toward him — not an adult, but another boy. Shorter, maybe nine or ten years old. As he came closer, Leo felt a jolt in his heart.

It was him.

The younger version of himself. The real one. The one who had laughed with Grandma in the kitchen, who had cried when his father left, who had once hidden under the table during a thunderstorm.

“Hi,” the boy said shyly, brushing a twig from his shirt. “I… I think I’ve been waiting for you.”

Leo knelt, his heart thudding.

“I think I’ve been trying to find you,” he whispered. “For a long time.”

The boy smiled. “Are you the one who forgot me?”

Leo didn’t know how to answer.

He reached out and took the boy’s hand.

The world seemed to hold its breath.

And then, together, they walked.

Through the glowing forest, across a bridge made of worn wood and rope, past shadows that whispered old memories. They walked without fear. Sometimes the boy led, tugging Leo toward a hidden pond, or a clearing filled with fireflies. Other times, Leo paused, catching the boy before he tripped, pointing out distant stars through the trees.

It was like walking through his own heart.

Each tree was a memory.

Each rustle of leaves was a moment he’d almost let slip away.

Finally, they reached a quiet hill where a stone bench stood beneath a flowering tree. The bench had two cups of tea resting on it, still warm. Leo and the boy sat down. The sun dipped low behind the trees, casting golden light across the hilltop.

“You don’t have to stay,” the boy said softly. “But I’m glad you came.”

Leo nodded. “I think I needed to see you again. To say I’m sorry.”

The boy looked puzzled. “For what?”

“For forgetting how much you loved this world. For growing up and getting scared. For thinking being brave meant never looking back.”

The boy reached into his pocket and pulled out something wrapped in cloth. He handed it to Leo.

It was the silver mirror.

Smaller now, the size of a compass.

“I think it’s time to go,” the boy said.

“Will I remember this?” Leo asked.

The boy nodded. “If you want to.”

The trees shimmered once more. The sky turned violet. The ground beneath them faded like a watercolor painting soaked in rain.

And then — Leo was alone.

Back in the attic.

The lantern was still lit, flickering gently.

In his hands: the little mirror.

It was warm.

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Chapter Eight: Grandma’s Voice

The next morning, Leo awoke to the smell of ginger tea and toast.

His head was full of color — memories he wasn’t sure were real. The forest, the boy, the gift. The way the mirror had hummed in his hand as if it were alive.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. Sunlight poured in through the attic window, soft and golden. On the nearby desk sat the mirror — the one from the attic wall — but now it looked slightly different. Its frame was polished. The cracks had softened. And there, along the silver edge, were tiny engravings that hadn’t been there before.

Symbols.

Or were they letters?

He traced a finger across them. They felt warm.

Downstairs, Grandma was humming. A slow, sweet tune — the one she always sang when kneading dough for mantou or folding dumplings at the table.

Leo carried the mirror with him and tiptoed down the wooden stairs. The house felt different, as though it had taken a long breath and let it out.

Grandma stood at the stove, her back to him. When she turned, her smile was just as he remembered — maybe a little softer, a little sadder.

“You slept well?” she asked.

Leo nodded.

“I had a dream,” he said.

“Was it a good one?”

“I think it was… more like a memory.”

She stirred the tea slowly. “Ah. Some memories are shaped like dreams. They visit when we’re ready.”

Leo placed the mirror on the table between them. “Did you ever go through it?”

Grandma looked at it quietly. Then she sat down and poured them both tea.

“When I was a girl,” she said, “I found it in the attic of my mother’s home. Just like you did.”

Leo listened.

“I used to sit in front of it and talk to the girl I used to be. Sometimes, she answered. Sometimes, she didn’t. But I always left feeling… lighter.”

“Did you ever walk through it?”

Grandma’s eyes twinkled. “Maybe. Maybe I only dreamed it.”

She took a sip. “But some dreams… they leave footprints.”

Leo looked down at his own hands.

He could still feel the boy’s grip. Still see the forest in his mind.

“Can I keep it?” he asked.

“The mirror?”

He nodded.

Grandma smiled. “It was always meant for you.”

She leaned in closer and touched his cheek.

“Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“That you’ll never forget who you were — or how far you’ve come.”

Leo held the mirror close. “I won’t.”

And somehow, he meant it.

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