Chapter 4: Yourself

She gestures toward the door, now subtly altered. It resembles the one from the second test, but this time, only a single figure adorns it, not a pair. The change is small, yet it feels significant. The door seems to stand as a solitary challenge—like the test itself, this moment feels different from the others. A faint sense of unease stirs within me, but I push it aside. I hesitate for a moment before stepping forward, curiosity gnawing at me. What now?

The door swings open quietly, and I find myself face-to-face with something completely unexpected. Behind it lies a mirror. No instruments, no mysterious challenges awaiting my hands or my intellect—just a single reflective surface, framed elegantly against the backdrop of the room. It stands alone, stark and imposing, and I can't shake the feeling that this test is more than just about what I see.

I stand before the mirror, contemplating its purpose. The silence in the room grows thicker as I watch my own reflection. There is no escape from it, no way to look away. I am forced to meet my own eyes.

"Young man," a voice calls out, breaking my concentration. It's the same voice from before, steady and unmoving. "The test will be very simple. Face the mirror for exactly one minute. During this time, the image in the mirror will gradually transform into your actual self—how you perceive yourself, at this moment."

At first, it seems deceptively easy. After all, how hard can it be to stand in front of a mirror? I have done it countless times. But as I stare at my reflection, something shifts in me. What is it about my reflection that makes my pulse quicken? I begin to wonder—who am I really? What do I see when I look at myself? Is it the truth, or just a shadow of the person I want to be?

I focus harder, my eyes tracing the lines of my face, the familiar curve of my jaw, the way my hair falls across my forehead. But then something happens. The edges of my reflection begin to blur, like ripples distorting a still pond. My youthful features start to warp, slowly aging, as though time itself is pulling at the threads of my identity. It's not just about growing older, though. As the seconds tick by, memories surge within me—fragments of my childhood, of moments I've long buried. I see flashes of laughter and warmth, but also regret and pain. There are moments of clarity too—decisions that seemed insignificant at the time, but which I now realize helped shape me into who I am.

The reflection deepens—my face grows older, the youthful naiveté replaced with something more seasoned. My body shifts too, each change an echo of the person I am becoming. It's a strange, almost surreal feeling, as though I'm witnessing not only my future but also the parts of my past that I had hidden from myself. The reflection is no longer just an image—it's a puzzle of all the versions of me that have existed, that are existing, and that will exist.

A minute passes, though it feels much longer. The reflection settles, leaving me with an image I'm unfamiliar with—a version of myself that is both older and wiser, yet still very much me. There's a sense of both familiarity and strangeness in the face staring back at me, as if I'm looking at a future self that hasn't quite found its place yet, but is nevertheless inching closer.

"Not bad, young man," the voice comments, breaking the silence that has enveloped me. "It looks like a 25-year-old version of you, I would say. Either you are deeper than your age suggests, or you see yourself as more mature than you actually are. Very interesting."

I frown at the older man's assessment, feeling an unspoken judgment linger in his words. A 25-year-old version of me? Is that what he sees? But I know that what I saw in the mirror is much more complicated than just a number. His words feel shallow, missing the complexity of the moment. I don't need his cryptic analysis to understand what I saw—what matters is that I saw it.

I give him a forced smile, the weight of his words still pressing on me. "Thank you," I mutter, not quite sure if the words are for him or for myself. I quickly make my way back to the reception desk, eager to leave the mirror behind and regain some sense of normalcy.

At the reception, the woman is waiting, her presence as impassive as ever. Her eyes meet mine, but there's no warmth in her gaze, no judgment, just a calm observation. It's as though she's seen it all before, and my experience—no matter how strange—is nothing new to her.

"You told me my efforts weren't finished," I remark dryly, trying to mask the unease that still lingers from the mirror. "But in the end, I just stood in front of a nine-years-older version of myself for a minute."

She doesn't respond immediately, her gaze piercing as she considers my words. Her silence stretches out, filling the room with an unspoken tension, as though she's weighing more than just my performance. Finally, she speaks.

"You have… what's your name?" she asks, the question almost too casual, as if it's something she's been meaning to ask all along.

"Mickael Amadeus," I reply, offering a polite but tired smile. The name feels strange in my mouth now, like a mask I've been wearing for too long. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."

"I hope you do equally well in the next tests," she says, her tone neutral, but there's a hint of something—perhaps a glimmer of recognition or understanding—beneath her calm exterior. Her words, like all of hers, are enigmatic but somehow comforting in their consistency. There's no judgment, no expectation, just the same steady presence she's maintained since I first walked through the door.

Her gaze lingers on me for a moment longer, and I find myself wondering what she sees, what she's been reading between the lines of each of my tests. But before I can dwell on it further, she turns her attention to the door once again, signaling that the next challenge is waiting for me.