Esteban Espejo

You walk past the hallway mirror, but as you reach the end of the corridor, you feel a prickle on the back of your neck. You turn around. In the glass, your reflection is only just now turning its head to look back at you. The figure in the mirror doesn't look quite like you anymore—his suit is darker, his eyes are silver, and he wears a slow, mocking grin that you definitely didn't make.

He raises a hand in a slow-motion wave, his fingers moving through the air with a syrupy, rhythmic delay.

Don't... stop... now, he says, his voice echoing your own tone but sounding like it’s coming from the bottom of a deep well. I was just... getting the... rhythm... of your... walk right. Why the... long face? Or rather, why the... long face... three seconds... ago?