ken. Felix stood in the center of Veronica's living room, the shattered glass from the anonymous package laid out on the coffee table like puzzle pieces. The red writing was st

ke at eleven. But the way she moved was *perfectly symmetrical,* like a reflection that forgot how to adapt. She smiled. Not kindly. "Hello, Felix," she said. "You've been reading our family secrets." He swallowed. "You're not her." "Oh, but I was," she said. "Long before *she* became real. I was the first memory - the first performance. The first *version.*" She tilted her head. "Your Veronica is the copy." Felix's breath caught. "Liar." The mirror laughed - a crystalline sound. "You can't be sure, can you? How would you *ever* know?" Then the glass fogged again. She was gone. --- Back at the house, Veronica was pacing, replaying the shattered message in her mind. **"You're not who you think you are."** The thought terrified her - not because it might be true, but because it already *felt* true. All her life she'd had gaps. Forgotten birthdays. Déjà vu that lasted too long. Dreams of memories she didn't own. She opened Gideon's journal again, flipped to the family tree, and traced the name marked with a mirror glyph - her grandmother, *Isador