Chapter 11: The Mirror Grove
It started with a tree.
Not just any tree—but a sentinel standing too straight, too tall, too quiet. Arthur paused inches away, noticing a twin beside it—identical bark patterns, branch twists, even matching moss lines smeared across the trunk. He spun around. Two, then four, then dozens of matched pairs stretching in perfect rows as far as he could see, beyond any clear pattern.
He swallowed. The forest crown overhead reflected on the ground as slanted latticework—fractals, geometry, echoes of symmetry. Something in his chest tightened, as if the stillness had weight—like he'd stepped into an echo chamber of trees.
A flicker behind him caught his eye. When he turned, nothing was there. He took a breath.
He lifted a foot—placed it gently on the damp leaf litter. There was a soft crunch. He paused. Then came the delayed repetition: (pause)…crunch. His own step returned to him warped in time, like a recording echo with a single-second delay. He froze, every muscle coiled.
He tested again. Foot forward—crunch. Wait. crunch again. Exactly half a beat later.
He lowered his lips to a whisper. "Echo. Delay. Not right."
He took another step. Same result.
Arthur swallowed. Crunch…crunch. The forest acted like a slow, mocking listener.
He rose, realizing he wasn't walking—he was stepping into a trap of reflection. The grove looped in mirrored corridors too perfect to be organic. His pulse clicked in rhythm with his steps.
He turned again, trying to find the break. But each path led to another twin path. A labyrinth made of identical choices.
He walked. He paused. Each step returned — but always delayed. A mocking twin following behind his shadow.
He reached for his spear—the crude wooden shaft offering the only comfort. Alone, he wandered into the grove, determined to find what reflected him.
Every crunch was met by a (pause)…crunch. He clenched his jaw, looking for a pattern, a clue, but nothing made sense. He was inside a forest-level mirror, with no defined exit.
He stumbled across a patch of moss — unusually thick, almost bouncy—and paused. His reflection footsteps repeated behind him as he crouched to inspect it. The moss release scent of rot and lime. No roots visible. Strange.
He placed his fingers on the moss. It shivered. Not moved — but felt alive. Arteries of green pulse beneath.
He pulled back, heart accelerating. The mirror-grove suddenly felt alive, conscious, aware.
As dusk approached, the forest light softened to silver-grey. Still nothing shifted outside of symmetry. No breeze, no animals, no insects. Only his own heartbeat and those warped echoes.
He lifted the corners of his jacket pocket and realized the knife was gone—buried, perhaps, in a previous tumbling fall. That absence pulled a new wave of alarm: he was unarmed inside a place that imitated him.
He shouldn't have moved as quickly—should've left earlier.
He briskly scanned the symmetrical rows. Each line stretched in replica, branch tip to branch tip. Even their roots extended outward in mirrored arcs.
He tried to mark one tree: he knifed bark to leave a spiral carved. He stepped away. Seconds later, he looked back—there were three spirals on different trees, distributed in equal intervals. Not random. Purposeful.
He rubbed his forehead, pacing. Something was playing with him. Not hunting—performing.
He sharpened a twig on his belt, digging grooves into bark at one location, then retreated. Soon after, he returned—breadcrumbs had floated away. Silence masked the removal.
He felt watched. But not by eyes—by intention.
He spotted something small: a girl-sized figure flickering at the edge of vision. Motion as soft as silk, as quick as late dusk. He dashed forward.
Nothing.
Only symmetry.
He paused, panting.
Then he heard it—footsteps again, but soft and irregular, dancing lightly behind him. Not his echo. Something else.
He spun—no one. But the forest, perfectly mirrored, offered hundreds of possible hiding spots. Each a shadow, each a threat.
He scrubbed dirt from his pants, calming himself, then moved forward. Resolved not to flee.
Darkness swallowed the grove fully. The sky through canopy looked mottled—like broken mirrors reflecting fractured light. Stars not visible, only glimmers of luminescence.
The echo steps had stopped. Now—only silence. But the silence had texture: tension.
Arthur stopped in the grove's center—found true center by counting symmetrical rows radiating out. He stood still. Waited. Tried to hold steady breath, hold firm will.
For a while, nothing.
Then the forest responded.
The trees' reflection symmetry broke—not visually, but perceptibly. Branches right before him seemed to thrum with energy. A low vibration hummed through ground.
Then: footsteps again. Behind him. Soft. Childlike, light.
He whirled, spear raised.
Nothing.
He listened.
They came again—closer. Not echo. Direct.
He stepped backward. Branches scraped his arms. He whirled again. Still nothing.
A whisper drifted through the trunk-lined pathways.
"Arthur…"
He recognized it—his voice, but a younger pitch. A child's inflection.
He jolted.
"Who's there?" he said, louder.
Nothing replied. Just the silence... and possibility.
He marched forward, walking deeper into symmetrical rows. His flute'd breath grew ragged.
Then he stopped. Something at the corner of a tree: initials, carved fresh—"A.N." Beneath, a spiral with arrow. An earlier symbol he'd carved.
Someone followed his marks.
That's when he saw the figure again.
A boy. His age. His face. Same battered shirt, same haunted gaze.
The boy stood four meters away, emerging from behind a mirrored trunk. Arthur's heart pounded.
"Who are you?" he called, voice cracking in the unnatural hush.
The boy didn't speak. Just watched. Then stepped forward.
Arthur backed, tripped over a root, fell.
He clutched the dirt, trembling.
The boy crouched beside him.
He leaned down, head tilting the same. Blank eyes zeroed on him.
Arthur stared back, breath coming in ragged gasps.
The boy's lips twitched into a grin. Not malicious—but empty. Slight crack echo in motion.
Arthur lunged to his feet. The boy didn't move.
He yelled out: "Answer me!"
The boy tilted head, stepped backward—slower than Arthur would expect. Then, without warning, dashed between two trees and vanished.
Arthur didn't chase. He didn't need to. The forest itself guided him.
He stood, catching breath. Everything in the grove felt altered. The distance between trees seemed shorter. The light dimmer. The air charged.
He walked slowly, following the direction the boy had gone. Bushes parted. Moss lines pointed. Paths curved to lead.
He arrived at the edge of the grove.
There was a break—a circular clearing. Twice the diameter of the earlier one. At the center, scattered glass shards glittered in dim light.
Large fragments—triangles, trapezoids, crescent shapes. Each reflected him. But the reflections were off. Vertical distortions. Twisted limbs. Faces stretched or squished. The broken mirror pool portrayed versions of himself that looked… wrong.
He stepped forward.
The glass rasped beneath his sole. He knelt, pressing fingertip to one shard. His eyes drowned in reflection—cracked and multiplied. He searched for reassurance, but found none.
The shards emanated hum—soft, consistent.
He heard another footstep behind him—sharper.
He spun.
No visible figure. But surrounding shards rattled in an unseen breeze.
He took another shard. Smaller. Triangular. Cold metal. He raised it to examine—the glass surface reflected him mid-gaze.
His reflection blinked first. And grinned.
Arthur yelped, dropped the shard. It shattered further.
He staggered.
A laughter rippled from the trees—tinkling, brittle, disembodied.
He shook his head.
This wasn't laughter. It was mock-comfort—a taunt. A sign that the forest had a voice after all.
He snatched a triangular fragment. Raised spear.
"Show yourself!" he roared. "Stop hiding behind me!"
Silent expectation filled the clearing.
A glass trembled at his feet.
Then, from between broken shards, he saw it—a weak reflection, high on a fragment near the center. The boy's face stared, but not his. Twisted. Slanted. His mouth open in silent screams.
The reflection shuddered, then vanished.
Silence. Mocking silence.
Arthur dropped to his knees and shoveled shards—the scattered fragments became a cascade of mirrored shapes.
A tremor shot through the grove. Trees leaned in. The hum grew a heartbeat. Another footstep—direct, not echo.
He spun wielding his spear, fighting to identify direction.
Nothing.
Then suddenly, a flash—metallic, painful—and he recoiled.
A shard had cut his left cheek. He touched his face—blood warm.
He splashed water from his canteen over it. The sting woke his mind.
He sat. Pressed palm to the wound. Felt wild bead of tears leaking.
There on leaves, he leaned back, yielding to emotion he'd suppressed.
A pulse of reflection light flickered in the shattered mirror pool.
He stared, tears and light dancing across his vision.
He whispered: "Make sense of this."
The air stilled. The forest ceased humming. A single leaf drifted to the ground, untouched by wind.
Behind him, footsteps: dozens. Soft, echoic.
But then, one direct step approached him—not delayed, not echo, but primary.
He turned slowly.
The boy stood — no, multiple boys — built from fragments of form, shifting in and out of view.
In the shards, he saw them: dozens of child-reflections moving outside of physical space.
Arthur rose unsteadily.
He lifted spear with both hands.
The echo steps closed around him, but each second slowed.
The forest itselflit around him—no source. A glow. Beneath him, the ground vibrated again—slow wave.
He raised his voice: "I am not your reflection! I will not stand silent!"
Silence again.
Then, one whisper floated overhead:
"Neither are we."
His heart seized.
The forest rocked.
He gripped spear.
He walked forward—into the shards, into the hissing reflection.
And he shattered the nearest shard with rage-fueled thrust.
Glass sprayed. Light fractured.
The forest held its breath.
What happened next…
A rumbling wave uncurled beneath his sneakers. The grove trembled. Trees leaned into each other. Branches quivered like pulled string.
And then – exhale.
The voice whispered again. Not ice, but quiet acceptance.
"You have left the mirror."
Then—a single heavy footstep. Real and direct.
Arthur waited. But no figure emerged.
He turned his shoulders.
In the grove center lay a single glass shard, shaped like a perfect eye.
He knelt, picked it up.
The eye-shaped shard reflected him whole.
Unbroken.
His true self.
He pressed it to his chest.
The grove light returned to normal. Trees stood straight. Patterns dissolved. The echo returned—but this time, matched rhythm.
He placed the eye-shard on the ground.
The forest absorbed it, glass sinking.
Arthur exhaled.
He stumbled out of the Mirror Grove at dawn. The canopy opened. The sky washed pale pink. Birds began to call—raw, real birdsong. Moss hummed underfoot. His echo-steps synchronized.
He paused at the ridge, watching the normal forest breathe again.
He placed a hand on his chest over the eye-shard's memory imprint.
He whispered forward: "I'm not a mirror reflection."
The forest answered only in breeze.
Behind him—no footsteps.
But he knew they'd wait at the grove's edge.
He kept walking.