I looked closely at the brass key in my hand, and saw that it was a narrow metal post with notches in its sides, the kind of key that was difficult to copy and would fit in a rounded slot. Looking around the mirrored walls and polished floor, it was almost impossible for me to find a locking mechanism with such a small, innocuous opening to push the key into.

The strange man was searching the room with me, his eyes following mine trying to see where there might be something looking like a keyhole. Would it be in one of the walls somewhere? In the reflecting objects strewn around the floor, like a treasure chest? Maybe if I stacked the right-angled objects and stood on them to reach the ceiling, it might open one of the opaque skylights lighting up the room with bright daylight? Maybe I’m overthinking this; perhaps the location of the keyhole is someplace obvious.

I closed my eyes for a minute, listening carefully to where the tinny music was coming from by moving forwards and backwards a few steps to figure out at least which direction it was coming from. Likewise, I tried to determine where the elderberry scent was weaker or stronger. After a few attempts at triangulating the location of the music and the fragrance, I gave up because they seemed to be coming from everywhere all at once.

My watchful friend in the mirrored surfaces didn’t seem to know either, and we looked at each other for a moment when his eyes broke away from mine and looked over my shoulder. Following his gaze, I suddenly noticed over his shoulder a door handle. Of course—the closed door I had come in from the hall!

I spun around and the man and I met each other at the door, looking and feeling around in the vicinity of the handle for a hole in its reflective surface. Sure enough, there was a small rounded hole under the door handle, the size of the engraved post of the key in my hand.

I puzzled about why there should be a key that might lock the only door I was aware of in and out of this room. Why would I lock myself in, if this was actually the key to this door?

I stared at the keyhole beneath the door handle, brass key warm in my palm. The mirrors around me shimmered, and suddenly a voice emerged from my own reflection.

“You need to lock it, not open it.”

I froze. The voice was my own, but not my own.

“I’ve been waiting in here long enough. Lock the door, and I can finally follow you out.”

My hand trembled slightly. “That makes no sense. This is the only exit.”

“Trust me. Lock it, and there will be another way.”

I hesitated, staring at my reflection. The voice wanted something—not just to help me, but to escape its own prison. After a long moment, I slid the key into the lock and turned it.

The click was soft, almost a whisper. But I felt it in my chest, a shift deeper than the turning of metal.

The mirrors around me rippled, then stilled. The stranger in the glass—the one who had been watching, waiting, lingering at the edge of my perception—stepped forward. Not out of the mirror, but into me.

I felt it as a settling. A weight I hadn’t known I was carrying, finally placed where it belonged.

My own voice spoke again, but not from the mirror. From inside.

“Good. Now look.”

I turned. Across the room, a new door had appeared—one I had not seen before. It was not in the wall. It was in the corner, where the mirrors met, as if the room had opened itself only after I closed the old way out.

I walked toward it. The music grew louder. The elderberry scent grew thicker. And when I pushed the door open, I found a small break room.

A wooden table sat in the center, worn but clean. A teapot steamed on a low counter, the scent of elderberry tea rising from it. A small radio played cheerful music, its dial tuned to a local broadcast. Someone had left a mug beside the teapot, still warm.

I stood in the doorway, not quite understanding what I was seeing.

“This is a room for someone. Not just a room—a place.”

The thought was my own. But it had the shape of the observer’s voice.

“You’ll need that tea. And you’ll want to listen to the radio—there’s news coming.”

I sat down at the table, my hand resting on the warm mug.

And I listened.

*** This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. ***