Through the Looking Glass

After breakfast, my plan for the day was to do absolutely nothing, but Mom had other ideas. I was two steps from the stairs when she called my name in that gentle but inescapably commanding way: "Clark? Can you help me with the attic?"

It was the middle of a summer storm, the sky already bruised and growling, so there went my lazy afternoon. But Mom was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, hands clasped with a polite expectation. She wore a faded denim blouse buttoned all the way up, but it couldn’t disguise the swelling curves beneath, nor the way her long navy skirt hugged the broad, maternal shelf of her hips. She always looked like she’d been poured into her clothes just a little too full for the container, and seeing her like this—prim, careful, beautiful—made it impossible to say no.

The attic was exactly as I remembered: dust and dry air so thick you could chew it, and a slanted roof that scraped your head if you stood up too quick. Boxes everywhere, labeled in my mom’s neat print: XMAS DECOR, CLARK KID ART, PHOTOS 1990-95. A long window at the far end filtered the storm-light into a bruised blue haze, which made the dust motes look like tiny meteors. There was only one dim lamp dangling from a cord; everything else was shadow and suggestion, and it smelled like cardboard, old pine, and the ghost of a thousand forgotten summers.

Mom took the lead, picking a careful path through the stacks, her skirt swishing around her ankles. "If we can just clear out this old corner, I'll be able to reach the insulation later. The air up here gets unbearable in August." She bent to lift a box, and the motion pulled her shirt tight across her back, straining at the seams around her shoulders and arms. The sight made my brain hiccup. For years I'd seen her as nothing but 'Mom'—a warm, safe abstraction—but coming home after college, seeing her from this new vantage, I couldn't unsee her as a woman. Every curve, every accidental touch or brush of her arm against mine, landed with double meaning now.

I watched her set the box aside with a little huff, a lock of black hair falling from her bun to frame her face. She straightened, saw me staring, and gave a nervous, almost girlish laugh. "What?" she said, tucking the hair behind her ear. Her cheeks colored, the blush spreading all the way to her neck.

"Nothing," I said, forcing myself to look busy. I grabbed a bin labeled HALLOWEEN and tried to wedge it into a stack, but the pile toppled over, scattering loose decorations everywhere.

Mom rushed over, kneeling to help. We collided, heads almost bumping, and for a second we were both on our knees, face to face, inches apart. I could smell her shampoo—her signature violet scent, clean and sharp—and the faint warmth of sweat beneath it. She looked up at me, eyes hazel and sparkling, and I noticed for the first time how long her lashes were. Our hands touched as we both reached for the same plastic jack-o'-lantern. The brush of her skin on mine was like static, the shock more thrilling than it had any right to be.

She drew her hand back first, letting me take the pumpkin, and laughed again. "You’re still so clumsy, Clark. I swear, some things never change."

"Some things do," I shot back, watching the curve of her smile and the way her chest heaved as she gathered herself. "You used to be able to tackle all of this without breaking a sweat."

She pretended to glare, but it didn't stick. "Getting older does that to you," she said, dusting off her knees. "Now come on, help me with this trunk. Your grandfather’s war stuff is in here."

We spent the next hour shifting boxes and piles, sometimes working across the room, sometimes shoulder to shoulder. The heat in the attic thickened, sweat prickling my scalp and making my shirt cling to my back. Every few minutes, the wind would gust outside, slamming rain against the glass. Thunder rolled, vibrating the house to its bones. Mom's hair kept slipping loose as she worked, and after the third or fourth time she gave up, pulling the pins out and letting it fall in a dark, shining wave around her shoulders. She didn't seem to realize how it changed her, how the loose hair made her look younger, softer, almost ****.

At one point we found a box of old clothes—Mom’s from her twenties, judging by the faded band tees and a pair of tiny denim shorts. She groaned, covering her face. "God, those are relics," she said. "Don’t look at those, they’re embarrassing."

I held up the shorts, turning them over in my hands. "You actually wore these?"

"Not for long. I couldn’t fit into them now if my life depended on it." She laughed, a throaty, resigned sound, then looked at me with a peculiar mix of pride and shame. "I had a different body back then."

I glanced down at her hips, the way her skirt clung and then flared out below her waist, and the outline of her thighs shifting as she knelt beside me. "I like this one better," I said, before I realized how it sounded.

She froze. The air between us went thick, static-charged, as if the storm had pressed itself into the attic just to watch what happened next. Then she looked away, cheeks glowing, and started folding the shorts, careful to keep her hands busy. "Well, you're sweet to say so," she said, but her voice quivered with something between flattery and discomfort.

We fell into silence, punctuated only by the rumble of thunder and the occasional thud of boxes being moved. After a while, Mom broke the quiet: "You know, you and your sisters used to play up here for hours. You'd make forts out of the couch cushions and hide under the insulation."

"Yeah, until Dad caught us and told us we’d get asbestos poisoning," I said. "Pretty sure that was just a lie so we'd stop messing up the insulation."

She smiled, a real one this time. "Your father had a lot of stories like that." She reached for another box, but it was too high. She balanced on tiptoes, her skirt tightening across her legs. When she still couldn’t reach, she shot me a pleading glance. "Help?"

I stepped in behind her, close enough that I could feel the heat from her back. With my arms on either side of her, I grabbed the box and lowered it, but in doing so, my chest pressed against her shoulder, and for a second her whole body went tense. I lingered, just a beat longer than I should have, and she didn't move away. Her breathing slowed, deepened. She looked up at me, her lips parted.

"Thanks," she whispered.

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. "No problem."

We set the box down together, both of us careful not to make eye contact. I tried to focus on the storm, on the relentless drum of rain, but all I could think about was the softness of her shoulder against my chest and the way her breath had changed, hitching and then settling in a slow, hungry rhythm.

After a few minutes, the silence became unbearable. "Want some water?" I asked, **** for a distraction.

"Yes," she said, her voice hoarse.

I jogged down to the kitchen and grabbed two bottles from the fridge. When I returned, she was sitting cross-legged on an old quilt, surrounded by boxes and photo albums, her hair wild around her face. She looked up at me and patted the spot beside her.

We drank in silence, the only sound the wind rattling the window and the pop of plastic as we opened our bottles.

Mom broke the silence. "It’s strange. I always imagined that when you kids grew up, the house would get quieter. But it never does. The noise just… shifts."

I nodded, unsure what to say. "It’s weird for me too. Feels like nothing’s changed, but at the same time, everything has."

She looked at me for a long time, eyes searching. "You’ve changed a lot, Clark."

"Is that good or bad?"

She smiled, slow and warm. "It’s good. I’m proud of you."

The words landed heavy, more intimate than I was ready for. I looked away, scanning the piles for a distraction, and spotted a large, cloth-draped object leaning against the far wall. "What’s that?"

She followed my gaze. "No idea. Been there since before we moved in, I think."

I got up and crossed to it, pulling off the sheet. Underneath was an enormous, old-fashioned mirror, its gilded frame ornately carved with leaves and cherubs. The glass was smoky, silvered with age, but it reflected the attic in ghostly detail. I wiped a palm-sized circle clean and peered into it. My face stared back, blurred and faintly warped, as if the mirror remembered a different version of me. Mom joined me, and together we stood in front of the glass, side by side. She reached out, tracing her finger along the edge of the frame. "This is beautiful," she said, and for a second we were both mesmerized by the way our images blurred into each other, our faces flickering in the antique silver. The storm outside chose that moment to redouble, rain hammering the roof so hard the attic shuddered. Thunder cracked so close it set my teeth on edge. The window rattled, and a weird, blue-white light flickered across the floor, illuminating the mirror from behind and making the glass ripple, almost as if it were liquid.

Mom reached for my hand, fingers curling tight. "Let’s move this over to the window," she said. "Might as well clean it up if we’re going to keep it."

We lifted it together, careful not to tip the heavy glass. As we maneuvered it across the attic, our hands kept brushing. At one point, we had to squeeze between two stacks of boxes, our bodies pressed together, breathing in tandem. I could feel every inch of her: the press of her hip against my thigh, the swell of her breasts brushing my arm, the flutter of her breath as she laughed nervously. When we set the mirror down by the window, we stood facing each other, barely a foot apart. The storm-light made everything sharper, more electric. Mom stared at the mirror, lost in thought. She smiled, reaching up to tuck another stray lock of hair behind her ear. For a second, she hesitated, eyes darting to my mouth and then back to my eyes, as if she was about to say something huge. But instead, she just let her hand drop to my shoulder, squeezing it gently.

"Thanks for helping," she said, soft and real.

"Anytime," I replied, the words barely above a whisper.

Mom dusted her palms on her skirt, staring at the mirror as if expecting it to answer for its own existence. The thing was anachronistic—ornate as a baroque casket, with flourishes of gilt leaves and angels crowding the frame. At the top, a cherub clung to a branch, one chubby finger raised in admonition or warning, as if to say, "Look, but don't look too close." The glass itself was foggy, silvered with age, warped in a way that made you squint to find your own outline.

We both hesitated, neither wanting to be the first to touch it. Mom finally reached out, brushing the glass with the edge of her sleeve. "It's beautiful," she said, her voice soft and uncertain.

"It looks haunted," I replied, and we both laughed, but the sound was thin.

She traced a groove along the frame. "Help me move it to the light?"

I nodded, and together we angled the mirror, dragging it upright and then edging it closer to the attic window. The mirror was heavier than expected, the kind of weight that demanded total concentration. I took one end, Mom the other, our arms nearly locked together in the cramped space. As we shuffled, her skirt tangled around her feet, and once or twice she steadied herself on my chest, fingers splayed for balance.

"Careful," I said, feeling the tremor of her touch through my shirt.

She made a face. "You know, I was always the strong one in the family. Even your dad couldn't out-lift me. I think I'm losing my touch."

"You're still stronger than me," I said, but this time it came out more breathy than teasing.

She looked at me sidelong, and there was a fleeting, unreadable something in her gaze—a mix of affection, embarrassment, and maybe a shade of curiosity.

We maneuvered the mirror into the center of the attic, catching the full spectrum of lightning as it flashed through the window. The storm was in full tantrum now, thunder so close it rattled the beams overhead, rain slashing the glass like an angry hand. The lamp flickered, casting everything in a weird, alternating strobe of warm gold and arctic blue.

"Let's give it a real clean," Mom said. She tore a strip from an old bedsheet, licked the corner, and began wiping the frame in slow, methodical strokes. I did the same, starting at the base and working upward, our hands sometimes meeting at the corners. Every time her arm stretched, the blouse rode higher, showing a strip of olive skin at her waist, and her chest pressed forward, the fabric drawing tight around her breasts. In the shifting half-light, the line of her jaw, the delicate slope of her neck, the soft ripple of her bicep, all became hypnotic.

We finished cleaning, both a little winded. Mom set down her rag, smoothing her skirt over her knees, and sat back on her heels. "You ever hear the story about Narcissus and the pond?"

I shook my head. "Not really."

"He stared so long at his own reflection he forgot the rest of the world. Just faded away into it." She laughed, but it was an anxious, dry sound. "Sometimes I wonder if that's what happens to people who dwell too much in the past."

I let my eyes linger on her. "You don't strike me as someone who fades away."

She blushed, that telltale color crawling up her neck again, and looked down, busying her hands with the bedsheet scrap. The wind outside screamed, and for a second the storm seemed to suck all the air from the room. Then, with a splintering bang, the attic window flew open, blasting us with a wall of rain and cold. The bedsheet rags scattered. Old letters and photos went airborne, caught in a cyclone of damp and dust. Mom shrieked, more in shock than fear, and grabbed my arm for balance. I lunged for the window, fighting the push of the wind, but Mom got there first, her hands braced against the frame. Her blouse clung to her, rain-slick, the outline of her bra faintly visible underneath. Her hair was wild, half-plastered to her cheeks, the other half streaming like a flag behind her.

As I reached for the other side of the frame, a sharp, blinding bolt of lightning ripped the sky. It illuminated the attic in violent, white-blue stutter, then everything plunged into pitch. I blinked, disoriented, heart tripping in my chest. In the instant before the after-image faded, I saw something in the mirror—a ripple, a shimmer, as if the glass was made of liquid. Our reflections looked wrong: our faces blurred, flickering in and out of sync with our bodies, as if the mirror couldn't quite keep up. My arm around Mom's waist, her hand on my shoulder, our bodies fused in a way that was both us and not-us. For a second, I swore the faces in the glass belonged to strangers.

I blinked again, but the image lingered, a slow, ghostly lag. Mom’s head was bowed, her eyes squeezed shut, lips parted. I saw the tremor in her chin, the faint quiver of her shoulders. Then she looked up and met my gaze in the mirror, her own reflection staring back at her with a look of raw, unfiltered need.

We both turned from the mirror, as if by mutual agreement, and lunged to **** the window closed. The latch stuck, the frame swollen from the rain, but we leaned our weight into it until, with a final shriek, it slammed shut. The wind cut off, leaving only the ringing of our ears and the frantic beating of our hearts.

Mom leaned back against the wall, catching her breath, hair pasted to her forehead. "God," she whispered, "I thought we were going to be sucked out of here."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I glanced at the mirror, and the image was normal again—just the two of us, flushed and panting, standing a little too close in a suddenly silent attic.

Mom wiped water from her cheek, and when she laughed, it was the laugh of someone who’d barely avoided disaster. "Your father would have said this was all your fault."

"Probably is," I said, grinning despite myself.

She looked at me, really looked, and then reached out, her hand on my cheek, thumb brushing away a streak of rain. Her touch lingered, warm and electric, and for a moment we stayed there, suspended, neither willing to be the first to break away.

Then, outside, another bolt of lightning hit, closer and brighter than before. It strobed through the attic window, painting everything in a deep, unreal blue. The mirror behind us caught the light, and in that split second, I saw our reflections merge—my arms around Mom, her body pressed against mine, her mouth open in a voiceless gasp.

Thunder crashed, rattling the entire house, and the attic lamp popped, plunging us into sudden, total darkness.

The next instant unfolded like a slow-motion car crash: the air in the attic went thin and blue, everything edged in a faint, humming outline. My skin prickled all over—tiny static shocks crawling from my scalp to my toes. Mom's hand was still gripping my arm, nails biting through my sleeve, her breath hot and ragged against my neck.

The mirror—our mirror—swallowed the lightning bolt. There was no other word for it. The glass didn’t shatter or even crack; it just drank the energy, the frame briefly burning with a deep, electric sapphire. For a moment, the attic was lit by nothing but this impossible, alien glow. I heard Mom gasp: "Clark—!"

Before she could finish, the surface of the mirror pulsed like a living thing. It rippled, bulged outward, then sucked inward with the gentle, horrifying inevitability of a black hole. I tried to pull back, but gravity or some new law of physics had me by the guts. The world stretched, color draining from the edges, the only thing that remained was Mom's voice—high and scared, my name on her lips as we were yanked toward the glass.

Our feet left the ground, both of us tumbling forward. I reached for her waist, trying to keep her behind me, but the suction was absolute. For a split second, we were weightless together, pressed chest-to-chest, her hair floating between us like strands of black lightning. I saw our reflection one last time: our bodies fused in blue light, our faces melting together, eyes wide and mouths parted in perfect, identical terror.

Then the surface hit us—a cold, slick slap—and we passed through, not like breaking glass, but like falling into a pool of syrup. Every sense warped: my hearing vanished, replaced by the roar of blood in my ears. My skin burned and froze at the same time. My limbs tangled with Mom's, our hands clutching, clutching, never letting go.

And then—

Nothing. No light, no sound, no up or down. Just the memory of Mom's body pressed against mine and the faint, persistent taste of ozone on my tongue.

I came to with a start, lungs empty, head spinning. I was sprawled on the attic floor, flat on my back, Mom collapsed across my chest. Her hair shrouded my face, still smelling of violets and rain, but beneath that was the faint, acrid scent of something burnt.

She was ****, her lips parted, eyes fluttering behind closed lids. I shook her gently. "Mom?"

She stirred, groaning. Her fingers tightened on my shirt, then relaxed. "What—" she whispered, then coughed, the sound weak and raw. "Are you okay?"

I nodded, not trusting my own voice. I helped her sit up, supporting her back while she blinked and tried to remember how to use her body.

"What happened?" she asked, breathless. "Did we… did we get struck by lightning?"

I didn't know how to answer. I sat up, rubbing my arms, and looked around. The attic was still, air dense but no longer charged. The window was closed, glass unbroken. The lamp overhead was on again, its light soft and steady. There was no sign of the storm. No wind, no rain, not even the gentle groan of thunder. Outside, sunlight slanted through the window, golden and untroubled. It looked like a perfect summer afternoon.

"Maybe we blacked out," I said, voice flat.

She tried to laugh, but it came out as a wheeze. "You were always the brave one," she said. "Even as a baby, you never cried. I thought I'd lost you there, for a second."

"You didn't," I said, and put my hand on hers, squeezing until her fingers curled back around mine.

We sat like that for a long time, collecting ourselves. Eventually, we stood, legs shaky but functional, and made our way to the window.

The world outside was… seemed different. Not in any obvious way, but the colors looked off, too bright and slightly saturated, as if someone had replaced the air with high-definition pixels. The yard below was empty, the trees perfectly still. I listened, but heard nothing—no birds, no distant lawnmowers, not even the hum of the highway.

Mom must have noticed it too. "It's so quiet," she said.

I nodded. "Do you remember… anything? After the flash?"

She shook her head. "Just your arms around me. Then nothing."

I glanced at the mirror. The glass was flawless now, scrubbed clean by the supernatural jolt, and the frame seemed even more ornate, its angels and leaves glinting in the new sunlight. I caught our reflections and shivered. There was something off about our eyes—an extra spark, a shine that hadn't been there before.

Mom caught me staring and smiled, shaky but real. "We're alive," she said, and the words felt like a spell, an anchor. "We're alive."