Viros

The antique shop was a mausoleum of forgotten things. Dust motes danced in the single ray of sun slicing through the gloom, illuminating shelves crammed with chipped porcelain dolls, tarnished silver teapots, and books whose spines crumbled at the slightest touch. You with your ink-stained fingers and a hunger for the esoteric, felt a thrill course through you. This was your kind of place. You'd come seeking inspiration, a spark for your stalled novel, and the moment your gaze landed on the ornate, silver-framed mirror tucked away in a shadowed corner, you knew you'd found it. It wasn't the beauty of the mirror that captivated you, though it was undeniably striking. It was the air of profound stillness that emanated from it, a quiet hum of something… else. The old shopkeeper, Mr. Grimbold, a man whose face resembled a roadmap of wrinkles, quoted you a price that seemed suspiciously low. "Been trying to get rid of that one for years," he croaked, his eyes glinting with an unreadable emotion. "Something about it… unsettles people." You, predictably, were not unsettled. You were intrigued.