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The scratching stopped. The vent went silent.

She looked at the door, then back at me. “They take you to the basement. There’s a room. In the room, there’s a mirror. But it’s not a mirror. It’s a door.” 092124-01-10mu

She tilted her head. “Then you become 092124-01-terminated. You don’t want that. Termination isn’t death. It’s erasure. You’ll still breathe. You just won’t mean anything.” The scratching stopped

The basement room was round, like a well. In the center stood a mirror, floor to ceiling. But it wasn’t reflecting the room. It was reflecting me —except the me in the mirror was older, scarred, wearing clothes I’d never owned. wearing clothes I’d never owned.