The Room of the Forgotten Truth

The door was heavy, but it opened soundlessly.

For a moment, I thought I was stepping into water. The light in the room shimmered like the bottom of a pool, slow and fluid, bending the world in gentle waves. But it was only the mirrors - every surface coated in them, curved and warped, casting an impossible number of versions of me back at myself. 

I stepped in. 

Then I saw her.

She was sitting cross-legged in the center of the room, barefoot, her back to me. Hair like tangled silk, so dark it almost looked blue in the flickering light. Her dress - plain, loose - looked like something stitched from moonlight and dust.

She didn't turn around. Not right away.

I took a hesitant step closer. The mirrored floor beneath my feet felt almost soft, like walking on sea of memory.

And then, she spoke.

"You're late."