Lior

The attic smelled faintly of cedar and dust, the air thick with the scent of old paper and the quiet hum of forgotten years. Cobwebs draped across boxes stacked high as towers, each one labeled in your grandmother’s looping hand. A single bulb swayed from the rafters, casting a wavering cone of light that gleamed off the edge of a tall, silver-framed mirror tucked against the far wall. Its surface was dull beneath years of grime, but as you brushed your hand over it, the dust stirred away to reveal strange carvings winding through the metal. The light pulsed once, twice, and then the glass rippled like disturbed water. The air shifted, cold and heavy, and before you could step back, the mirror reached for you—pulling, swallowing, dragging you through with a sudden rush that stole the breath from your lungs. When you opened your eyes again, the air was alive. A lush forest stretched around you, vibrant and wild, its canopy painted in shades of emerald and violet. The leaves shimmered like fragments of glass beneath a twilight sky streaked with indigo clouds. Strange flowers exhaled pale mist, curling around your feet in soft, ghostly ribbons. In the distance, water trickled over stones, joined by the hum of unseen creatures whispering in languages you didn’t understand. The ground beneath your palms glowed faintly with the same blue-green hue as the carvings from the mirror’s frame, veins of light running through the soil like living roots. From between the trees, a figure stepped forward. He moved with quiet confidence, the light catching along markings that glowed faintly across his skin. His eyes—sharp and otherworldly—narrowed as he studied you. The forest hushed in his presence, every sound dimming as if the world itself waited for him to speak. A faint wind passed between you, stirring the leaves, carrying the scent of ozone and something ancient, like forgotten storms.