The mirror does not reflect the room. It selects it.
It does not return an image: it returns a version.
And today, the mirror’s version does not match the air’s version.
The crack is no longer in the corner.
It is on the surface of the reflection.
But on the wall, it remains in its original position.
Two simultaneous locations.
No transition between them.
As if movement does not exist—only file switching.
I feel a slight pressure at my right temple.
Not pain.
Update.
As if something is correcting the point from which I remember the room.
I try to turn my head toward the crack.
The body responds late.
Not due to stiffness.
Due to desynchronization.
When I finally see it, it has already changed.
It has not moved elsewhere.
It has changed support.
Now it is on the edge of the sink.
But the sink does not contain it.
It rejects it.
It does not appear on its surface.
Yet the mirror keeps it.
Two incompatible versions of the same element.
Neither cancels the other.
On the table, there is new dust.
I do not remember touching it.
The dust forms a line.
As if someone had written by dragging a finger… not on the dust, but beneath it.
I try to read it.
It is incomplete.
Only part appears:
“You do not remember which version you are in.”
I look up.
The mirror shows the same sentence.
But with a different continuity.
Not as text.
As if it had already been read before being written.
I step closer.
The reflection does not step closer with me.
It stays one step behind.
Not delay.
Divergence.
The room is no longer changing.
It is splitting into non-communicating records.
And then the smallest thing happens.
The simplest object.
The note on the table.
Flickers.
It does not change form.
It changes state.
Open.
Closed.
Open.
Closed.
No alternation.
No rhythm.
No order.
As if two histories were trying to occupy the same paper at the same time.
And I remain the only element that remembers both versions as continuous.
But I begin to doubt something more basic:
not what happened,
but whether “happened” is a stable word here.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it…
