Florence Wells had never considered mirrors to be particularly interesting until one tried to speak to her.
It happened on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday in late September, during third-period English at Pinewood Middle School. Florence had asked to use the restroom mostly as an excuse to escape Mrs. Henley's droning lecture on adverbs. As she washed her hands in the empty girls' bathroom, a flicker of movement caught her eye—movement that wasn't her own.
She froze, water still running over her motionless fingers.
In the streaked rectangular mirror above the sink, her reflection stared back at her: a thin thirteen-year-old girl with unruly dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, serious gray eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, and a spattering of freckles across her nose that she'd inherited from a mother she couldn't remember. But for the briefest moment, there had been something else there too—a shadow that didn't belong, a face that wasn't hers superimposed over her own.
Florence blinked hard and looked again. Nothing but her own reflection, pale and wide-eyed.
"Get it together, Wells," she muttered to herself, shutting off the faucet with a decisive twist.
That's when the first crack appeared—a tiny fissure at the corner of the mirror that spread with the soft, crisp sound of ice breaking on a winter pond. Florence took a startled step backward as more fractures spiderwebbed across the glass surface, radiating outward from where her hands had been.
And in the broken pieces of her reflection, something moved again. Something that mouthed a word that looked suspiciously like her name.
Florence.
She bolted from the bathroom, heart hammering in her chest, and didn't stop running until she was halfway down the hall. Only then did she pause, pressing her back against a row of lockers and struggling to calm her breathing.
You imagined it, she told herself firmly. Mirrors don't talk. They don't know your name.
Florence had always been practical to a fault—a quality her Aunt Judith praised and her classmates mocked. "Wells has no imagination," they'd say, which wasn't true at all. Florence simply kept her imagination firmly separated from reality, tucked away where it couldn't complicate things.
But lately, reality had been behaving strangely around her.
Two weeks ago, her math textbook had vanished from her desk during lunch period, only to reappear in her locker, though she was certain she'd never put it there. Last Thursday, all the lights in the science lab had flickered wildly when she'd grown frustrated during a failed experiment. And just yesterday, she'd caught her aunt staring at her with an expression that looked almost like fear when Florence had absent-mindedly caused her spoon to stir her cereal without touching it.
These incidents had been happening with increasing frequency since her thirteenth birthday in August. Florence had started keeping a small notebook documenting them, searching for patterns, for explanations that made sense. Because things had to make sense. The alternative was unthinkable.
"Wells! What are you doing out here?"
The sharp voice made Florence jump. Principal Grayson stood at the end of the hallway, arms crossed over his broad chest, thick eyebrows bunched together in perpetual disapproval.
"I was just—the bathroom mirror—" Florence stumbled over her words, then caught herself. What was she going to say? That a mirror cracked itself and tried to speak to her? "I wasn't feeling well, sir. I'm better now."
Principal Grayson's frown deepened. "Back to class, Wells. Now."
"Yes, sir."
Florence hurried back toward Mrs. Henley's classroom, glancing nervously at the bathroom door as she passed it. Tomorrow she would use the restroom on the first floor instead.
Florence lived with her aunt and uncle in a modest two-story house on Maple Street in the small town of Riverdale, Colorado. The town sat nestled at the base of the Rocky Mountains, close enough to Denver that Uncle Morris could commute to his accounting job in the city, but far enough away that real estate was still affordable.
It was a practical arrangement, as Aunt Judith often reminded her. Florence should be grateful.
And she was, truly. Her aunt and uncle had taken her in when she was just a baby, after her parents died in what she'd always been told was a car accident. They provided for her needs, maintained a clean and orderly household, and ensured she received a proper education. That they had never quite figured out how to show affection toward their unexpected ward was not their fault. Florence had learned to manage without it.
That evening, as she picked at Aunt Judith's overcooked pot roast, Florence debated whether to mention the incident with the mirror. Her aunt was watching her more closely than usual, her thin lips pressed into a tight line.
"Something happen at school today?" Uncle Morris asked suddenly, not looking up from his plate. He was a large man with thinning hair and thick glasses who spoke rarely and smiled even less.
Florence's fork clattered against her plate. "Why do you ask?"
"The school called," Aunt Judith said, her voice clipped. "Said you were found wandering the halls during class time. Said you seemed disturbed."
"I wasn't feeling well," Florence repeated her earlier lie. "Just needed some air."
Uncle Morris grunted, accepting this explanation, but Aunt Judith continued to study her with narrowed eyes. There was something in her aunt's gaze lately—a wariness, an expectation of disaster—that made Florence's skin prickle.
"Eat your dinner," Aunt Judith said finally. "Then straight to homework."
Florence nodded and forced down another bite of stringy meat, relieved the interrogation was over. Later, as she cleared the table, she heard her aunt and uncle talking in low, urgent tones in the living room.
"It's starting, Morris," Aunt Judith hissed. "Just like they said it would."
"We don't know that," her uncle rumbled back.
"The signs are all there! The incidents are getting more frequent. If we don't do something—"
"Lower your voice," Uncle Morris warned. "We agreed thirteen years ago. We stick to the plan."
Florence stood frozen in the kitchen, dirty plates clutched in her hands. The plan? What plan? And who were "they"?
Before she could hear more, Uncle Morris appeared in the doorway, startling her so badly she nearly dropped the dishes.
"Finish up and go to your room, Florence," he said gruffly. "And remember—curiosity isn't always a virtue."
That night, Florence couldn't sleep. She lay in bed staring at the shadows on her ceiling, replaying the bathroom incident and her aunt and uncle's cryptic conversation.
Her small bedroom was neat and sparse—a twin bed with a blue quilt, a sturdy wooden desk, a bookshelf filled with carefully arranged novels and reference books. The only personal touches were a collection of interesting rocks she'd gathered over the years displayed on the windowsill, and a single framed photograph on her nightstand.
Florence reached for the photo now, tracing the edges of the silver frame with her finger. It showed a young couple standing in front of a log cabin somewhere in the mountains. The woman—her mother—had Florence's same dark hair and serious expression. The man—her father—was tall and lanky with a gentle smile. They had their arms around each other, looking happy and very much alive. It was the only picture of her parents she owned.
Who were you really? she wondered, not for the first time. Her aunt and uncle rarely spoke of them, offering only the barest details when pressed. Eleanor and James Wells had been researchers of some kind. They'd met in graduate school. They'd died when Florence was just eleven months old. That was all she knew.
A soft tap-tap-tap at her window made Florence sit bolt upright in bed. She stared at the glass, heart racing, half expecting to see a face peering in at her. But there was nothing there—just darkness and the faint outline of the pine tree in the front yard.
Probably just a branch, she told herself, but she couldn't quite shake the feeling that someone—or something—was watching her.
Florence set the photograph back on her nightstand and turned off her lamp. In the darkness, she pulled her notebook from beneath her pillow and added today's incident to her growing list of unexplained occurrences.
September 24: Bathroom mirror cracked itself. Thought I saw someone else's face. Thought I heard my name.
She paused, then added one more line:
Overheard Aunt J. and Uncle M. talking about "signs" and a "plan" made 13 years ago. Said "they" had warned them about something.
Florence closed the notebook and tucked it back into its hiding place. Whatever was happening to her—whatever her aunt and uncle were hiding—she was determined to figure it out. Florence Wells didn't believe in coincidences or superstitions or talking mirrors.
But as she drifted toward sleep, she couldn't help but wonder if she should start.
The next morning dawned gray and drizzly. Florence ate her breakfast in silence, acutely aware of Aunt Judith's watchful gaze. There were shadows under her aunt's eyes, as if she hadn't slept well either.
"I'll drive you to school today," Aunt Judith announced as Florence was putting her dishes in the sink.
"That's okay. I can walk, like usual."
"It's raining," her aunt said firmly. "I'm driving you."
The drive was tense and quiet. Florence stared out the window at the raindrops chasing each other down the glass, forming rivulets that distorted the world outside. When they pulled up in front of Pinewood Middle School, Aunt Judith put the car in park but didn't unlock the doors.
"Florence," she said, her hands tight on the steering wheel. "If anything... unusual happens today, I want you to call me immediately. Do you understand?"
Florence studied her aunt's profile. "What do you mean by unusual?"
Aunt Judith's mouth worked as if she were chewing on words she didn't want to say. "Just—anything out of the ordinary. Anything that frightens you."
Like a mirror trying to speak to me? Florence thought, but didn't say. Instead, she nodded. "Okay. I will."
Her aunt seemed satisfied with this. She unlocked the doors with a click.
"And Florence?" she added as Florence was stepping out of the car. "Stay away from mirrors today, if you can."
Florence froze, one foot on the wet pavement outside. Slowly, she turned back to face her aunt. "What did you say?"
But Aunt Judith wouldn't meet her eyes. "Never mind. Have a good day at school."
Florence stood in the rain, watching her aunt's car disappear around the corner. A chill that had nothing to do with the weather crept up her spine.
She knows.
Florence moved through her morning classes in a daze, barely hearing the teachers' lectures. Her mind kept returning to her aunt's warning. Stay away from mirrors. How could Aunt Judith possibly know about what happened yesterday? Unless—unless she knew something about whatever was happening to Florence. Unless this was part of the "plan" she'd overheard them discussing.
By lunchtime, Florence had convinced herself that she needed to confront her aunt when she got home. Enough secrets. She deserved to know what was going on.
She was so lost in thought that she didn't notice the tall figure blocking her path until she walked straight into him.
"Watch it, weirdo," sneered Brandon Miller, the eighth-grade class president and Florence's least favorite person at Pinewood. He was flanked, as always, by his two lackeys, Trevor and Dylan.
"Sorry," Florence muttered, trying to step around them.
Brandon moved to block her again. "Not so fast, Wells. Heard you had some kind of freakout in the bathroom yesterday. Finally lose what's left of your mind?"
Florence stiffened. News traveled fast in a school this small. "I wasn't feeling well. Now if you'll excuse me—"
"Know what I think?" Brandon leaned in close, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. "I think you're just like your crazy parents."
Florence's head snapped up. "What do you know about my parents?"
Brandon smirked, clearly pleased to have hit a nerve. "My dad's on the town council. He said your parents were total whack jobs. Living up in the mountains doing weird experiments. Probably blew themselves up doing something illegal."
"That's not true," Florence said, her voice trembling with sudden anger. "They died in a car accident."
"Yeah? That's what your aunt and uncle tell everyone. But my dad says—"
"Your dad doesn't know anything," Florence cut him off, her hands curling into fists at her sides. The lights in the hallway flickered overhead—once, twice.
Don't lose control. Don't let it happen again. But Florence could feel something building inside her, a pressure behind her eyes, a humming in her ears.
Brandon must have noticed something change in her expression because he took a small step back. "Geez, Wells, learn to take a joke. Come on, guys."
The three boys shouldered past her, Brandon deliberately bumping into her as he went. Florence stood rooted to the spot, struggling to contain the strange energy pulsing through her veins.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Gradually, the pressure subsided. The lights stopped flickering. Florence unclenched her fists and saw half-moon indentations where her nails had dug into her palms.
What Brandon had said about her parents—it couldn't be true. But why would his father say such things? What "weird experiments" was he talking about?
Florence was so distracted that she didn't realize she'd wandered into the girls' bathroom—the same one from yesterday—until she was already inside. She froze when she saw the mirror.
It was completely intact. No cracks, no fissures, not even a scratch. As if yesterday had never happened.
Florence approached it cautiously, half-expecting her reflection to start moving independently again. But the mirror showed only her own face, pale and troubled.
"I know what I saw," she whispered to her reflection.
And then, as if in answer, the bathroom door swung shut behind her with a decisive click, though there was no one there to close it. The lights dimmed, and in the sudden semi-darkness, Florence's reflection began to change.
Her hair seemed to float as if underwater. Her eyes darkened until they were solid black. And her reflection's lips curved into a smile that Florence herself was not making.
"Florence Wells," the reflection said, its voice like water running over stones. "At last."
Florence wanted to scream, but no sound came out. She wanted to run, but her feet seemed rooted to the floor. All she could do was stare as her reflection lifted a hand and pressed it against the glass from the other side.
"We've been looking for you for so long," the reflection continued, its voice echoing strangely in the small bathroom. "Your parents hid you well."
"My parents?" Florence managed to whisper. "What do you know about my parents?"
The reflection's smile widened. "Everything. And soon, you will too."
The mirror's surface rippled like disturbed water. The hand pressed against it from the other side began to push through, the glass becoming fluid around it. Pale fingers emerged into the real world, reaching for Florence.
With a strangled cry, Florence finally broke free of her paralysis. She stumbled backward, away from the grasping hand, and collided with the bathroom stall behind her.
The moment she broke eye contact with the mirror, the lights blazed back to full brightness. The door swung open again, letting in the sounds of the school hallway. And when Florence dared to look back at the mirror, it showed only her own terrified reflection, exactly as it should be.
But on the mirror's surface, written in what looked like condensation from a hot shower, were three words:
FIND THE KEY
Florence heard footsteps approaching the bathroom. In a panic, she grabbed a paper towel and lunged forward to wipe away the message. The words smeared under her hand but didn't disappear completely. She scrubbed harder, desperate to erase the evidence of what had just happened.
The bathroom door opened, and two seventh-grade girls walked in, giving Florence strange looks as they found her frantically wiping at a seemingly clean mirror.
"Are you okay?" one of them asked uncertainly.
Florence's hand stilled. The message was gone. She lowered the crumpled paper towel and tried to compose herself.
"Fine," she said shortly. "Just... cleaning."
She tossed the paper towel in the trash and hurried out, feeling their curious stares follow her. In the busy hallway, surrounded by normal teenagers with normal problems, Florence leaned against a wall and tried to slow her racing heart.
Find the key. What key? And what had the mirror meant about her parents hiding her?
Florence had the growing certainty that everything she thought she knew about herself and her family was wrong. Whatever her aunt and uncle were keeping from her, whatever secrets lay in her past, it was time to uncover them.
Because something was looking for her. And it had just found her.
As the bell rang signaling the end of lunch period, Florence made a decision. She wouldn't be going back to class this afternoon. Instead, she was going to do something she'd never done before: she was going to skip school, go home while her aunt and uncle were still at work, and search the house for answers.
It was time to find the truth—before the truth found her first.