THE MAGIC MIRROR LOVE

The rain tapped gently on the windowpane like a secret rhythm only the old house could understand. Juliette Moreau sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, surrounded by the scents of lavender and vintage paper. Her grandmother's room-now hers-had a strange charm to it: antique mirrors, floral wallpaper, and a vanity table cluttered with forgotten trinkets. Outside, the world of Paris moved as usual-cars passed, bicycles zipped by, and people walked with umbrellas like clockwork. But inside her little sanctuary, time felt slower, sacred.

She traced her fingers over the delicate frame of the mirror before her. It was old-framed in iron vines and roses, and though cracked slightly at the edge, it was pristine at the center. Her grandmother had once told her it came from a forest during the war, a forest where things didn't follow the rules of the world. A magical place, one of whispered secrets and untold stories.

Juliette scoffed softly at the memory. Magical mirrors belonged in fairy tales, not in the hands of twenty-eight-year-old women with a flair for romanticizing old furniture. Yet, here she was-drawn to it every morning. There were days she'd find herself talking to it, as if it listened, as if it could answer. She chalked it up to nostalgia, perhaps even loneliness. But she never once thought it could be more than a family heirloom.

Still, she kept it. Used it. Loved it. Every morning, it watched her. Every night, it reflected back more than just her face-it mirrored a presence. An energy.

Today, something was different.

As she applied lip balm with her index finger, the mirror fogged-not from her breath, but from within. A slow bloom of mist, swirling like smoke inside the glass. She blinked. Rubbed her eyes. The fog cleared slowly to reveal not her own reflection... but a room. Sparse. Wooden. Drenched in a different kind of light.

Juliette leaned closer. The room on the other side had paper walls. The furniture was minimal-just a wooden desk, a floor cushion, and a large window showing waves crashing against a distant shore. It felt... peaceful.

A boy sat across from her.

He looked a few years older than her. Black hair. Soft eyes. He had the kind of face that looked like it held poetry behind a calm silence. He wasn't looking at her. He was sketching something on a piece of paper. Then, he lifted his head.

Their eyes met.

Her heart skipped. She stumbled backward, knocking over a candle.

Across the mirror, the boy jerked forward as if startled by the same sudden collision. His eyes widened. He dropped his pencil.

"What the..." Juliette murmured. She leaned closer again, waving slowly.

The boy blinked and lifted his hand too. Then, he pointed to himself and scribbled something on the paper before him.

REN.

He turned the paper to face her. She saw his name, bold and clear. The way he held the notebook showed practiced care, like someone who treasured small moments.

Juliette's hands trembled slightly. She picked up her sketchpad and wrote in block letters:

JULIETTE.

She held it up. He smiled gently.

Their names hovered between them. An ocean apart. Yet somehow... no distance at all.

The mirror shimmered.

Juliette's heart thundered. She placed her palm on the surface. So did he. Their hands aligned. Warmth seeped through the glass.

"Can you hear me?" she whispered.

Ren mouthed the same question.

The glass vibrated faintly, a hum so low it felt like a heartbeat. Juliette didn't know whether to scream, cry, or laugh. This was impossible. This was surreal. And yet, she didn't want to look away.

For what felt like hours, they communicated through expressions, drawings, words scribbled on paper. He was in Japan. She, in France. Neither knew how it was possible. But both understood-deep inside-that this wasn't a coincidence.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Juliette rested her head against the mirror. Her eyes fluttered shut. Before sleep took her, she whispered, "Please don't disappear."

Ren watched her, as though committing her to memory. Then, he picked up his pencil and drew a rose. Beneath it, he wrote:

TOMORROW?

The mirror pulsed gently.

Juliette nodded just before drifting off.

And thus began the love story neither of them saw coming-the story of a girl who saw more than herself in the glass, and a boy who'd been waiting to be seen. A story not of chance, but of fate. The first chapter in a book written across continents and through time-by two souls bound by one magical mirror.

Tomorrow would come. And with it, a thousand words more.