Jett backed away, heart pounding in his throat. Then he saw the mirror.

Chapter 10 of Echoes In The Walls

_____

The house was breathing.

Jett felt it — floorboards shifting when no one walked them, air vents exhaling with no system engaged. The silence had changed, too. It no longer just sat heavy in the corners. Now it pressed back.

He knew where he had to go.

Back to the west wing. Back to the room he locked. The room with the tour shirt. The coffee cup. The folded note signed “K.”

He waited until the staff was gone.

Maria had the day off. Kenneth was out running checks on the perimeter. Avery had left quietly that morning, giving up trying to keep him grounded, a look on her face like she was watching a man walk into the sea.

Jett stood outside the door to the forgotten room, key in hand.

He hadn’t been inside since he found the note. His fingers trembled as he unlocked it.

The air was colder.

Colder than it should’ve been for a house with central heat.

The window was cracked again, even though he’d latched it shut. The mattress still lay unused on the floor. But something was different now.

The room had been . . . rearranged.

On the wall, someone had tacked up photos. His photos. Candid shots from the early days — Snake Choir backstage, Sierra by the pool in ‘98, a shot of him on the Late Show in a denim vest and sunglasses.

He stepped closer.

The photos had red Xs drawn through them.

Except for one.

A photo of him from twenty years ago — standing outside this very house, guitar case in hand, smiling like he still believed in the next record.

No X.

Just a note beneath it, scrawled in the same shaky handwriting from before:

This is the last version worth saving.

Jett backed away, heart pounding in his throat.

Then he saw the mirror.

Someone had dragged a tall, narrow mirror into the room and leaned it against the far wall.

It hadn’t been there before.

He approached slowly.

His reflection stared back — sickly pale, eyes ringed with shadow, shoulders hunched like a man carrying a coffin he couldn’t remember building.

And yet . . . something in the glass was wrong.

Off.

The reflection’s mouth was moving.

Jett’s wasn’t.

He leaned closer.

The reflection whispered:

“You stopped playing. That’s when you let me in.”

Jett staggered back.

The mirror didn’t fall. But his own legs gave out.

He landed hard on the dusty floor, staring up at the ceiling.

Footsteps moved above him. Somewhere upstairs.

The attic.

He had never liked the attic.

Too hot in the summer. Too cold in the winter. Creaky boards, old boxes. Dusty, stale air.

Sierra had once tried to turn it into a writing loft but gave up after two weeks, claiming the silence gave her migraines.

Now, he climbed the stairs, flashlight in hand.

He hadn’t been up here in years.

Dust swirled in the beam as he reached the landing. The air was thicker here — still and weighty. Every step groaned beneath his boots.

He passed old amp cases, stage lights, wardrobe trunks covered in torn festival stickers.

Then he saw the door.

Smaller than the others. Bare wood. No handle.

But it was open.

A faint light flickered from within.

Jett pushed it open wider.

Inside was a small crawlspace. Insulated walls. Low ceiling. And something he hadn’t expected:

A desk. Simple. Wooden. Covered in loose pages, all scrawled in his handwriting.

Lyrics.

Hundreds of them.

But not his songs. Well, they were, but . . . no. They were warped. Twisted versions.

“Kiss the fire goodbye and bury the flame in my own name.”

“The mirror sings louder than the crowd ever did.”

“There’s no such thing as solo when you’re splitting in two.”

He picked one up.

At the bottom of the page:

“K. Doyle / J. Vale”

Both names.

He turned slowly. And saw himself sitting in the corner.

Same face. Same clothes. Older. Not a reflection.

Just . . . another version.

Still.

Silent.

Watching.

“Who are you?” Jett whispered.

The other smiled faintly.

“You know.”

Jett stepped forward, trembling. “You’re not real.”

The man stood.

He moved like Jett. But slower. Like memory in molasses.

“I’m what’s left,” he said. “When the lights go out. When the stage is quiet. When they stop singing your name.”

“You’re in my head.”

He laughed. “I’m in your walls,” he said, tapping his temple. “Same thing.”

Jett backed toward the door. “You need to leave.”

“I can’t,” the other said. “You invited me in.”

“No.”

“You stopped playing. You stopped writing. You let the songs die, and I had to carry them.”

Jett’s breath caught. His mind came up blank. “I didn’t know.”

The other smiled. “Now you do.”

*     *     *

He woke up on the attic floor.

Alone. No desk. No pages.

Just dust. And silence.

He looked at his hand. In it was a guitar pick. Red celluloid.

His guitar pick.

Or maybe . . . the other’s.

_____

© Secret Agent Man
info@secretagentman.net