The Mirror in the Attic
A novella for readers young and old
By Jerry Liang & ChatGPT
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Chapter One: The House on the Hill
The train ride to Hualien had always felt like a small adventure. The Puyuma Express curved along the coastline, where blue waves crashed against dark rocks, and fishing boats drifted like little toys far out at sea. Leo sat by the window, watching the blur of green mountains and banana trees pass by, lost in the hum of wheels on tracks and the distant cry of a hawk.
Grandma was waiting at the station.
She waved both hands the moment she saw him, her eyes bright under the wide brim of her straw hat. Her hair, once long and black, had turned the color of rice husks. She hugged him tightly, her scent a comforting mix of herbs, jasmine soap, and the faintest trace of mint candy.
“Look at you,” she said, holding him at arm’s length. “Taller again! But still my Leo.”
He smiled. “I’ve missed you, Grandma.”
They walked together to her old house — the same one she had lived in since Grandpa passed away, perched on a gentle hill near Meilun Creek. It was a two-story wooden home, with squeaky stairs and red clay tiles. The garden overflowed with guava trees, dragonfruit vines, and thick, singing grasshoppers.
Inside, the house smelled of roasted peanuts, old books, and the faint scent of camphor. Leo dropped his backpack in the guest room and flopped onto the wooden floor to pet Abei, the family’s chubby ginger cat, who purred in his usual grumpy rhythm.
That night, after a dinner of Grandma’s famous scallion pancakes and sweet lotus-root soup, Leo climbed up to the attic. He always loved that space — dusty and mysterious, filled with relics from other times: Grandpa’s harmonica, faded photo albums, bamboo baskets, and stacks of forgotten books.
But this time, something was different.
Against the far wall stood a tall oval mirror he’d never noticed before. Its wooden frame was carved with winding vines and tiny birds — elegant, delicate, old. The glass shimmered strangely in the dim attic light, even though there were no windows nearby.
Curious, Leo approached it.
At first, his reflection stared back: same dark eyes, same messy hair, same striped T-shirt. But then, just as he tilted his head, his reflection didn’t follow.
He froze.
Instead of copying his movements, the boy in the mirror smiled, then stepped backward into a different room — a room Leo had never seen before. It looked like a glowing version of the attic, filled with warm sunlight, flowers in pots, and fluttering curtains.
Leo reached out and touched the mirror’s surface. It felt warm.
The attic behind him was quiet, except for the ticking of a clock downstairs. Abei meowed softly from the staircase, but didn’t come in.
And then, without warning, the mirror shimmered like a pond in the breeze — and Leo fell through.
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Chapter Two: The Other Side
Leo landed softly on a wooden floor.
But it wasn’t Grandma’s attic anymore. The dust was gone. Instead, the space was filled with the golden scent of sunlight and the sound of birds chirping outside. Where old boxes used to sit, there were now colorful cushions, spinning tops, handmade paper lanterns, and drawings taped to the walls — drawings that moved, like living sketches.
The mirror behind him shimmered quietly, still oval-shaped, but now looking into his own attic. Leo stood, brushing off his pants. There was no fear in him — only wonder.
Then he heard it.
A voice — soft, familiar, his own voice, but younger somehow.
“Are you me?” the other Leo asked, stepping out from behind a low wooden shelf. He looked about nine or ten years old, wearing the same shirt Leo had outgrown last year. His eyes sparkled, like he knew a secret.
Leo blinked. “Wait... You’re me? From the past?”
The younger Leo nodded. “Sort of. I’m you, but not exactly. I’m the part you forgot. The part that remembers how to play, how to dream, how to talk to cats and taste summer in the air.”
Leo didn’t know what to say.
He wandered through the room. Everything looked familiar and strange at the same time. A spinning globe floated midair, gently turning without touch. A stack of Grandma’s old books opened by themselves, pages fluttering like wings. And there, in the corner, was a model of the house — perfect in every detail, down to the cracks in the windowsills.
“You used to love coming here,” the younger Leo said. “Remember how we imagined the attic was a spaceship? Or a pirate ship? Or a stage for secret concerts?”
Leo smiled. He did remember.
“But things changed,” his younger self continued. “School got busy. You stopped listening to the wind. You forgot the stories Grandma told you.”
Leo sat down on a large, round cushion. “I didn’t mean to forget. I guess... I just grew up.”
The younger Leo tilted his head. “Maybe. But growing up doesn’t mean leaving everything behind.”
A paper butterfly landed on Leo’s shoulder. It felt real — wings pulsing like tiny lungs. The light in the room grew warmer.
Then the younger Leo stood and pointed to the mirror. “You can go back anytime. But the more you visit, the more you remember. The more you remember, the better you’ll understand.”
Leo looked at the mirror. It was still glowing. He felt the pull — not just of curiosity, but of connection. Something inside him, something that had gone quiet for years, was now gently stirring.
Before stepping back through the mirror, he turned and asked, “Will I see you again?”
The younger Leo grinned. “That’s up to you.”
Then, in a shimmer of light, Leo stepped back through the glass — and into the attic of the real world.
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