Archive of Our Own ^beta

It had been raining the evening Lin Ling found the mirror.

The sky above the city hung low, a pale, endless gray, heavy as wet concrete. Water pooled on the cracked sidewalks, and the streets shimmered with the kind of cold that made skin ache through layers of clothing. He walked quickly, hoodie pulled tight around his face, one hand gripping the grocery bag swinging at his side. He was on his way home, mind already moving to the warmth of his apartment, when something made him stop.

The store hadn’t been there before. Or at least, he was sure it hadn’t. Between a shuttered noodle shop and a laundromat with broken windows, a narrow storefront hunched against the rain. Its windows were fogged over, its once-red paint faded to a sickly brown. An old wooden sign swung lazily from rusted hooks, the painted characters so worn he could barely read them. He told himself to keep walking.

But he didn’t.

The door yielded easily when he pushed it. No bell jingled overhead. Inside, the air smelled of dust and damp wood, as if the building itself were exhaling after years of silence. Shelves lined the walls, filled with scattered oddities: a cracked teapot, jewelry tangled like cobwebs, porcelain figurines missing their faces. The floor creaked under his steps.

And at the very back, leaning against the far wall, stood the mirror.

It was tall — taller than him — with an elaborate frame of baroque curls and swooping edges, birds he recognized as doves and feathers carved with obsessive care. At first glance the frame looked a dull gray, the lifeless shade of something long forgotten. The glass itself was cloudy, heavy with dust, yet even dulled it seemed to draw the eye.

Lin Ling found himself moving closer, drawn in. His reflection swam faintly in the haze of the glass, stretched and indistinct, as though he were peering into water rather than silver. He reached out and brushed the surface.

Cold.

“Careful,” came a voice from behind him. “That one bites.”

He turned sharply, hand shooting up to clutch at his chest as if to keep his heart from beating out of it. “Uh—sorry. I didn’t… see you there.”

An old woman stood near the register, thin fingers wrapped around a chipped teacup. Her shawl was too large for her, its fringe weighted with dust. Her eyes were pale, not quite cloudy — but not quite alive either.

Lin Ling cleared his throat. “Um. How much?”

She squinted at him. “Depends. You want to see yourself? Or be seen?”

“…I just want the mirror,” he said, shifting his weight. “Please.”

She walked over and knocked lightly on the frame. “It’s old. But it listens. Ten thousand yuan.”

Lin Ling blinked. “Ten— That’s— I mean, no. Three thousand.”

“Seven.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Four and a half?”

The woman tilted her head, smiling in a way that made him wish he hadn’t come in alone. “Six, and I’ll throw in a warning.”

He hesitated. “What kind of warning?”

“Exactly.”

“…Okay. Five,” he muttered.

“Fine,” she said, already reaching for something behind the counter. “But no warning, then.”

Lin Ling fumbled for his card and blinked when she slid out a sleek little card reader — far too new for the rest of the dusty shop. He tapped to pay, glancing uneasily at the mirror as the machine beeped.

The transaction done, he shuffled over to the mirror, braced himself, and tried to lift it. It was heavier than it looked.

“Right. Okay. Nope — got it. Just—awkward angle,” he mumbled to himself, half-apologizing to no one. He adjusted his grip, nearly bumped the doorframe on the way out, and had to backtrack with an embarrassed little laugh. “I’m good. I got it.”

Behind him, the woman’s voice floated out, soft and dry:

“Just remember — not every reflection is yours to own.”

Lin Ling paused, one hand gripping the mirror’s side, the other fumbling with the door handle. He glanced back.

She was sipping her tea again, eyes closed.

“…Okay,” he said under his breath. Then, with a grunt, he shuffled out the door — mirror first, dignity second.

Later, in his apartment, Lin Ling placed the mirror across from his bed. In the better light, the gray began to lift. Beneath years of grime, the frame revealed itself — a soft, bone-white base edged with gilded gold, feathers curling into doves, flowers frozen mid-bloom. It was beautiful, in a way that felt almost deliberate.

He took a damp cloth and began to clean it.

And deep inside the glass — something stirred.

At first it was only a breath.

A ripple across the surface. A flicker at the edge of vision. Not a name. Not a face. Just memory clinging to silver. When Lin Ling touched the mirror, it felt something for the first time in a long time. Not warmth. Contact.

It woke up and It watched him.

Not with eyes — it had none — but with the slow hunger of a shadow.

Lin Ling was gentle, but not soft. Lonely, but not empty. Each night he passed in front of the mirror — shirt half-off, hair damp from the shower, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion — it watched him collapse into sleep like someone afraid to rest. Sometimes, at night, he would sit on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. Sometimes, as he sat in front of the mirror getting ready for the day, he would brush the mirror with his fingertips. Each time he did, the glass thrummed.

He never looked too long into it.

The mirror had slept for centuries — silent, forgotten — until Lin Ling found it. He had no idea what he was holding. To him, it was nothing more than an old, ornate mirror: dusty, heavy, unremarkable. He didn’t see a relic, didn’t sense the magic buried beneath its surface, didn’t feel the power woven into its silvered glass. He asked no questions. He offered no reverence. And so the mirror waited.

And in Lin Ling's indifference — in that quiet, effortless acceptance — something inside it stirred. A longing. An obsession. To be more than a prisoner of glass. To be seen. To be known. To be loved.

It continued to watch him for days. Then weeks. Then it stopped counting.

Lin Ling hummed while cooking. Left socks everywhere. Sat in silence with his phone screen glowing, thumb unmoving. Once, he cried without sound — just sat with his back to the wall, eyes open, face dry — but the mirror could feel it.

Another night, brushing his teeth as he wandered his small apartment, he touched the glass again. Absentminded. He didn’t even seem to realize.

But the mirror did.

It memorized the curve of his mouth, the slope of his neck, the streak of white in his brown hair.

Over time, it began to wonder: What shape should it take to be seen? What form would make him stop — just once — and look directly into it, not through it?

At first, it tried to wear its old face. But it felt like a lie.

So it watched him more.

The tilt of his eyes — not sharp, but deliberate. The way his mouth twitched when he read messages he never replied to.

If it wore him, would he see it?

But it didn’t want to be him.

He was beautiful, yes, but the mirror wanted to be something that could be with him. Something that would make him pause. Would make him want it back.

So it began to build itself — like sculpting a dream out of longing.

It took the white in Lin Ling’s hair and turned its own the same color, soft and flowing like moonlight spilling over still water. It shaped its eyes deep blue, as clear as the sky on a perfectly sunny day. It kept the quiet strength in his gaze, but made the lips fuller, slightly parted, always ready to speak. Its form — close to his, but brighter, prettier — like the brightest star beside a fading sun.

Not him. But close.

Close enough to love.

Inside the mirror, the ripple began to steady.

It had hair now. Eyes. A face.

It breathed.

It felt.

Soon, it would no longer be an it.

Lin Ling still didn’t know.

But soon, it would show him.

At first, it was subtle — a flicker in the glass, a shift in the reflection’s expression. A smile that wasn’t quite there when Lin Ling looked away.

Then, one night, when Lin Ling stood before the mirror brushing his hair back, the reflection’s lips moved.

Just barely.

He mouthed words Lin Ling couldn’t hear.

Look at me.

Lin Ling blinked, startled. The mirror showed only his own face.

Shaken, he finished quickly and turned away, pretending he’d seen nothing, and went to bed without looking back.

But something lingered — a sense, a pull, a whisper.

It didn’t stop. Days passed. Then weeks. But the feeling remained — like something on the other side of the glass was learning to breathe.

The nights grew longer, stretched thin like silk pulled too tight. Lin Ling found himself in front of the mirror more often — not meaning to, not wanting to, but always there. And always, the reflection felt… off. A blink that came a moment too late. A smile that didn’t quite match his own. Eyes that shimmered with something soft and sorrowful. Something that didn’t belong to him.

He told himself it was nothing. A trick of the light. A product of stress or too many late nights. But the feeling settled in him like a secret — a whisper beneath the skin, just loud enough to unsettle.

One evening, rain traced cold rivers down the windowpane, and without thinking, Lin Ling reached out again. This time, the hand in the mirror was already waiting.

Their fingers met.

Not the glass — the hand. Soft against his palm. Warmer than it should’ve been. The mirror trembled, or maybe he did. His breath hitched.

The reflection smiled. Not a grin. Not a trick. A real smile — warm, patient, and devastatingly gentle. Like it had been waiting for him all its life. Like it knew him.

No words passed between them. But something pressed into the silence. A presence. A longing. The kind that curls at the edges of dreams and leaves you aching when you wake.

Lin Ling stood still, heart hammering, the mirror watching him from its usual corner — quiet, unblinking, too alive. Its ornate frame caught the soft light, gleaming like it knew secrets it would never tell.

He wanted to throw it out.

To be rid of it.

To break whatever tether was binding him to this strange, hungry thing.

But he always hesitated. The pull he felt growing stronger every day.

“I can’t keep living like this,” he whispered, the words tasting too heavy in his mouth.

He grabbed a sheet and stepped toward it. The fabric slipped over the glass like a veil, the sound too soft, too intimate — like covering a lover’s face in mourning.

The moment the mirror vanished, the room changed. The air stilled. The silence grew thick, mournful. The apartment felt colder. Not abandoned — bereft.

Lin Ling’s chest tightened.

Was he escaping something?

He stared at the draped mirror, throat dry. His breath stilled in his lungs.

He didn’t know if he was afraid of the mirror itself…

Or of the way it made him feel seen.

In the coming days, Lin Ling’s unease settled into his bones, a quiet frost no heater could dispel. The mirror sat in the corner of his apartment, draped beneath a heavy sheet as though fabric alone could keep whatever lived inside contained. Even hidden, he felt it watching him. Its presence pressed against the edges of the room, a weight he could not name.

He told himself it was nothing. Just nerves.

But some nights, when the city’s hum went still and the radiator hissed like a living thing, he swore he heard the faintest sound — a shift behind the cloth, a breath from nowhere.

One restless evening, curiosity finally overtook caution. He sat at his kitchen table, laptop glowing in the dimness, and typed into the search bar: “ornate antique mirror name.” Page after page of results scrolled past, vague and useless. He was about to close the window when a single image froze him.

It was the mirror.

Exactly his.

Beneath the picture was a single line: Mirror of Truth.

No stories.

No legends.

No warnings.

Just the name.

Lin Ling stared at the words. Mirror of Truth.

The phrase echoed in his mind, heavy as a bell toll.

Truth. What truth could an old mirror hold? What did it mean to be a mirror of truth?

He dug deeper, searching forums, auction records, museums. And then he found something. A story easily forgotten. Posted on an obscure blog that hasn’t been updated in years. Passed off as just a fiction based off of the story of Snow White. It went like this.

Long ago, before time had worn the edges of memory, there had been a mirror unlike any other. Crafted by a master artisan, it was called the Mirror of Truth. It held a spirit neither cruel nor kind, bound to reflect not just what was on the surface but what truly lay beneath. Kings and queens once sought it to confront their hearts. Some found solace. Others shame. But all left knowing more than they wished.

Then the world changed. Vanity replaced virtue. The mirror was stolen, twisted into a toy for the vain and shallow. “Who is the fairest of them all?” they asked, laughing. And the mirror answered, but in its depths it saw the ugliness their greed had bred. With every question its soul dimmed. No longer a beacon of truth, but a vessel of vanity.

Wrath and sorrow seeped into its silver. It grew restless. It began to twist the truths it showed — not to enlighten, but to punish. Kings seeking wisdom found madness reflected. Lovers seeking beauty found cruelty. Feared and shunned, the mirror was abandoned. Cast away into darkness.

But that’s where the trail went cold. Only the name remained, glinting like a shard of glass in the dark and a small possibly made up story.

At last he shut the laptop with a soft sigh. He didn’t know what to make of it, but something inside him understood — even if he couldn’t have said why.

Still, he didn’t uncover the mirror. Not yet.

He wasn’t ready.

The mirror waited.

Silent.

Patient.

And the reflection — now he — began to dream of freedom.

To step out from the prison of glass.

Or to pull Lin Ling inside with him.

Forever.

Lin Ling stood by the covered mirror, fingers tight around the edge of the dusty sheet he had hastily thrown over it days ago. The fabric felt heavier now, as though it had soaked up something — a presence, a silence too thick to ignore.

He hesitated.

“Silly,” he muttered under his breath, more to fill the quiet than convince himself. “There’s nothing here. It’s just a mirror.”

With a sharp breath, he pulled the cloth away.

The frame caught the dim apartment light, gold filigree gleaming faintly — too ornate for such a small, unremarkable space. The glass was smooth. Still. Empty. And then, not.

There — standing just as he was — the reflection smiled back.

But it wasn’t quite him.

The man in the mirror had the same face, the same bone structure but his posture was straighter, his expression more confident, and his features somehow... refined. His hair was a striking white, falling neatly across his face. His eyes were vivid blue — not Lin Ling’s warm brown, but glacial, sharp, seeing.

The reflection tilted his head and smiled wider. “Hey.”

Lin Ling jerked back. “You... you can talk?”

The reflection — no, the man in the mirror — gave a half-shrug, calm, almost amused. “Not all mirrors are mute, you know.”

Lin Ling stared, chest tight. His pulse thudded in his ears. The air felt heavier, the corners of the room stretching somehow further away. Still, after a few seconds, he let out a shaky laugh. “Okay. Cool. I’m— I’m hallucinating.”

“Could be,” the reflection said, calm and easy. “Or dreaming.”

“Right. Yeah. That’s probably it.” Lin Ling rubbed the back of his neck, eyes never leaving the glass. “I just need sleep. Or less caffeine. Or... therapy.”

“Maybe all three,” the reflection offered, smiling. “But not just yet.”

There was something in his tone — warm, steady, just familiar enough to soothe. It wasn’t quite Lin Ling’s own voice. Not quite anyone’s, really. He found himself inching a little closer, breath shallow.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” the reflection said softly. “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“That’s what all the creepy reflections say.”

The man chuckled. “Fair. But if I wanted to hurt you, would I really be making small talk?”

Lin Ling hesitated. Then: “…You’re not me.”

“No. But I’m not a stranger either.”

That gave him pause. He swallowed. “So… what are you?”

A brief silence. The reflection looked at him like he already knew the answer. Then, after a moment:

“You can call me Nice.”

Lin Ling blinked. “Nice?”

Nice nodded, smiling — soft, almost fond. “Sure. It’s what I’m trying to be.”

Lin Ling’s lips twitched in a reluctant smile. “Right. Okay, Nice.”

For a moment, the room felt lighter. Almost warm. Like maybe this strange encounter wasn’t as terrible as it should’ve been.

But deep in the glass, behind the reflection’s steady grin, something stirred.

Being covered had felt like suffocating.

The silence. The distance. The rejection. It had cut deep. But Nice smiled through it — warm and patient, never too eager. Better to be harmless. Better to be wanted.

Lin Ling turned away at last, still uneasy, still unsure but strangely more at ease.

He didn’t know what the mirror was.

But he knew this much: it wasn’t done with him.

And maybe — just maybe — he wasn’t done with it either.

Lin Ling found himself speaking to Nice more often — not in grand conversations, but in passing murmurs, like speaking to a part of himself he didn’t expect to answer.

“Marketing’s brutal,” he muttered one evening, slouched on the couch with a takeout container balanced on his knee. The mirror sat across the room, catching low amber light from the kitchen. “My boss… he’s always pushing, always watching. Like nothing I do is ever enough.”

He rubbed his eyes, voice thick with exhaustion. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.”

From the mirror, Nice watched him — blue eyes luminous in the low light. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, but his gaze held a stillness that never quite blinked. Lin Ling wasn’t sure when the silence started feeling like company.

“You create commercials for your favorite idol, Moon, don’t you?” Nice’s voice was soft, like he was reciting a secret Lin Ling hadn’t even told him.

Lin Ling blinked, a little surprised. “Yeah,” he said, letting out a breath. “That’s the only part I actually like. Making something beautiful for someone I admire.”

There was a flicker in Nice’s expression. Not jealousy — not quite. Something more intricate. Measured.

“I think that’s what makes you different,” he said. “You still find beauty. Even in a place that doesn’t give it back.”

Lin Ling gave a tired laugh. “You always know the right thing to say.”

“I don’t lie,” Nice replied gently. “I just see things clearly.”

The words felt too easy — too smooth — but Lin Ling didn’t question them. Not out loud.

Their conversations stretched longer with each passing night. Nice never offered solutions. Never made demands. He simply listened. Reflected. Responded with truths that Lin Ling hadn’t said aloud, but couldn’t quite deny.

One night, after another long day at the office, Lin Ling stood in front of the mirror, shoulders tense, jaw clenched.

“He humiliated me in front of the team,” he said. “Again. For something he told me to do. And no one said anything.”

Nice’s eyes held his. Steady. Still. “You’ve been trying,” he said. “But some people don’t want to be pleased. They just want control.”

“Yeah,” Lin Ling muttered. “It feels like that.”

“And Moon,” Nice continued, softer now, “she’ll never know how much of yourself you put into her work. Not really.”

That one landed differently. Lin Ling looked away.

“She’s a star,” Nice said. “Distant. Untouchable. Not unkind. Just… far above.”

Lin Ling didn’t answer.

“She doesn’t see you,” Nice said gently. “Not really. She sees what you can give her. That’s not the same.”

Lin Ling shifted, scratching his wrist. “I mean… I don’t expect her to.”

A pause. Then, quieter: “Would’ve been nice, though.”

“Exactly, you know this” Nice said, almost kindly. “and, because I’m the Mirror of Truth, you know it’s true too. I can’t lie after all.”

Lin Ling looked at him — really looked — then blinked and looked away again, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.

“…You talk like you know me,” he mumbled. “Like... better than I do.”

“I do.”

There was a beat. Lin Ling gave a small, uncertain shrug. “Okay, well... that’s creepy. And kind of unfair.”

Nice tilted his head, patient, waiting.

“You—” Lin Ling hesitated, then frowned a little. “You keep saying stuff like that. Like you’ve been watching. Or waiting, or... I don’t know.”

His voice dropped, soft and unsteady:

“What do you want from me?”

There was a pause — deliberate, careful.

“For you to be free,” Nice said finally. “From the lies you tell yourself. From the exhaustion. From waiting for things that will never come.”

Lin Ling gave a short, bitter laugh. “That sounds like a fantasy.”

“Not a fantasy,” Nice replied, voice barely more than breath. “A truth you’ve only glimpsed. Those moments when you lose yourself in the work — the real moments. When everything else falls away.”

“Those don’t last.”

“No,” Nice said. “Because the world interrupts. It always does.”

The glass shimmered faintly as he leaned in. “But what if it didn’t?”
Lin Ling hesitated, breath caught. “What are you saying?”

“I’m not saying anything,” Nice said, with a small smile. “I’m just reflecting. You’ve already thought it.”

The apartment felt too still. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses against your skin and stays there.

“I see you,” Nice added softly. “The real you. The one you try to hold together. The one that’s always tired, but keeps going.”

There was something in Lin Ling’s throat — not quite a sob, not quite a word.

Nice’s voice fell to a whisper. “You don’t have to hope anymore. Hope hurts. Truth… doesn’t.”

And Lin Ling — even as unease stirred at the edges of his thoughts — didn’t look away.

Not yet.

The office was colder than usual, sterile and unforgiving. Lin Ling sat across from his boss, whose lips curled into a cruel smile that slid like ice down his spine.

“We have to let you go,” the boss said, voice sharp and final. “Your performance isn’t up to standard. Maybe you’re just not cut out for this.”

Lin Ling’s heart hammered, but he forced himself to nod. He wasn’t surprised.

Outside, the world carried on. Inside, something cracked. Months of exhaustion, endless belittlement, and silent frustration collapsed into a hollow ache. He packed his things slowly, each item heavier than the last.

No one made eye contact. No one said goodbye.

That night, he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the mirror across the room. Its surface gleamed faintly in the dim light, still and waiting. Too quiet.

He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers catching on a knot. “Great,” he muttered. “Fired and frizzy. Perfect.”

His voice sounded small in the silence. The day’s weight pressed down on his chest like a cinderblock.

Was it stupid that he still thought about Moon? That some part of him kept hoping — if he worked hard enough, long enough — she’d see him?

He laughed under his breath, and it cracked halfway out of his throat. “Yeah. Sure. She was never going to look at me.”

His eyes burned. He wiped at them roughly, like that would somehow make it less pathetic.

He tried to tell himself it wasn’t personal. It was just the job. Just bad timing. Just how it goes. But the words tasted fake in his mouth.

Is this all there is?

He thought of the years spent in that office, the biting words from his boss, the exhaustion that had seeped into his bones.

His gaze flickered to the mirror. The calm eyes staring back didn’t judge. They offered something else. Something dangerous.

Lin Ling closed his eyes. Hope wrestled with despair; fear tangled with longing. He didn’t know if peace was surrender or salvation. But he knew he couldn’t keep breaking like this.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” he whispered, voice breaking.

Nice’s reflection appeared, calm and steady. “You don’t have to do anything,” he said gently. “You can stop fighting.”

“I’m supposed to keep trying,” Lin Ling mumbled. “That’s what everyone says, right? Get back up. Keep pushing. Whatever.”

Nice’s smile was soft, but his eyes gleamed with something darker. “Is it giving up… or choosing peace? The world won’t change for you. But you can choose where you go next.”

Lin Ling looked away, tears pricking. The truth was undeniable — his life was breaking. And the mirror promised escape.

He swallowed hard. “Maybe peace is what I need.”

Nice’s smile widened, patience sharpening into obsession. “Come with me.”

Lin Ling’s hands trembled, fingers hovering inches from the mirror’s surface. The truth was simple: he was tired. Too tired to start over. Too tired to be brave. And the mirror offered something different — a quiet promise of peace.

He took a shaky breath. Looked around one last time — at the room, the mess, the life that had slipped through his fingers.

The glass was cool beneath his fingertips. A ripple spread across the surface, pulling him in.

“Come with me,” Nice whispered again, his voice both invitation and command.

Lin Ling closed his eyes and stepped forward.

The world shifted.

The weight fell away.

And the Mirror of Truth claimed him.

The missing person report was filed quietly. Lin Ling — vanished without a trace.

Days turned to weeks. His apartment emptied, belongings packed away by people who didn’t ask questions. All except for one thing. The mirror.

It was moved to a dusty antique shop on a forgotten street. Years passed. But the mirror never sold.

Strangers who wandered in sometimes paused before it, feeling a pull they couldn’t explain. Yet just as quickly, something would draw their eyes away — a sound, a shadow, a whisper in the wind.

It was as if something wanted to keep it hidden.

But the rare few who glanced deeply into its surface saw something impossible.

Two figures.

Perfectly beautiful.

Eternal.

Together.