Chapter 1

It's five in the morning and I'm singing in my shower like it's the best day of my life. In reality it's just another Monday and I have class in three hours, but I'm optimistic. Like most people I'm not normally a morning person, like at all. I require copious amounts of coffee dashed with a certain amount of grumbling to get myself moving any time before noon.

But, this morning is different. I'm in such a good mood that even this early morning can't keep me from smiling and singing whatever song pops into my head. I didn't even press the snooze button on my alarm this morning, so I know it's going to be a good day.

Why am I in such a good mood? Because I moved out of my parents house yesterday. I have my own place. It's a small crappy studio apartment sure, but it's mine. It's also not far from my work and school, so, bonus points.

I don't have to listen to my parents arguing. I don't have any roommates. I can do whatever I want without being yelled at—like singing in the shower and five in the morning at the top of my lungs. Waking up and realizing it all wasn't a dream was like waking up and finding a hundred dollars.

The apartment smells faintly like Nordic Spruce, the scent of the candles that I found at the nearby Target. I burned them for hours yesterday with the windows open in an attempt to get rid of the lingering cigarette smell from the previous tenant while I unpacked some of my things. It was only a partial success. Now it just smells a forest where someone had a smoke.

The shower goes cold fast. I have about ten to fifteen minutes of hot water, tops. This early in the morning I might get an extra few minutes if I'm lucky. The landlord warned me about it, but I've always taken quick showers anyway so I wasn't deterred and it makes the rent cheaper.

The bathroom is too small for a tub, so I only have a small corner shower. The toilet is wedged in the other corner and the sink isn't even large enough to rest a toothbrush on. When I step out, the steam has covered the mirror and the tiles are slick. I need to buy a shower rug, but that wasn't on my budget this week. I opted for the candles instead.

I wrap my towel around myself so it stays in place and flip the second switch on the wall a few times. Supposedly it powers the fan, but I haven't had any luck it getting it to turn on. I'll have to tell the landlord about it. I keep singing anyway, there are worse things than foggy, humid bathrooms. I wipe my hand against the mirror above the sink. I do it again...and again, but the mirror stays foggy. The mist swirls in its reflection.

The song cuts off in my throat.

I lean closer to the mirror until my nose is nearly touching it. I can't see my face.

"What--?" I scream, naturally, because I see a shadow moving. Not behind me. Not in the bathroom, but a shadow inside the mirror. I slap my hand over my mouth and take a deep breath. The lights aren't flickering and the bathroom is warm. If horror movies are true then I take it as a good sign that the place isn't haunted. You're seeing things.

I look back in the mirror, but this time I don't see anything, just fog. I lean in close again and a face appears. But it's not mine, it's the face of a boy I don't recognize and all at once he's coming out of my mirror.

I think about screaming again but, I don't really get the chance to. The boy comes through the mirror like a freight train. Our heads collide and his body hurls into mine and we crash against the wall behind us and fall onto the floor. I see red for a few seconds as pain shoots through my tailbone and skull.

"I'm so terribly sorry," the boy on top of me says in a heavy english accent.

He's British, I think dumbly and stare at the ceiling while my vision swims. My forehead throbs from where his head collided with mine.

The boy struggles to get up but hits the back of his head on the sink and lets off a stream of curses. "Oh hell," he says, rubbing his head vigorously, messing up his styled hair. He moves slower on his second attempt, keeping his head down, and pushes himself onto his knees. He's straddling my hips, but he doesn't seem to notice or care.

I think I want to scream, but I can't find my voice. Did a boy just come through my mirror? I look down to see that my towel isn't doing the best job of keeping me covered and I snatch it up against my chest.

"I didn't mean to jump on you like that—in fact I didn't mean to come here at all. I'm afraid yours was the only opening I could find," he says not looking at me. I have no idea what he's talking about and I don't really care..

I think a boy just came through my mirror.

He pulls a pocket watch from a pocket on his vest and pops it open. He glances up at me when I don't respond or move. "Oh," he says closing the watch and returning it to his pocket. "I think I've given you a shock haven't I? Of course I have." He answers himself and offers a gentle smile. "It's not every day someone comes out of your mirror, am I right?" He chuckles like it's the most natural thing in the world. I can't seem to move, or speak, or even open my mouth. My mind I surprisingly blank and I just stare at him.

"You look a little pale," he states. "And calm...you're too calm. This has happened before a few times, not in a long time but I've been slapped and punched, even shot at once, but you're definitely the calmest person I've come across. Honestly, I don't really know how to take it. It's actually a bit unnerving..." He pauses a moment and we stare at each other. "Hmmm," he says. "I'm going to get up now and if you wouldn't scream that would, well that would be lovely. Yes?"

He pauses a moment, waiting for a response but I don't give one. A British boy just came through my mirror. "Right," he slowly stands, rubbing his head as he does where he hit it on the sink. There's a red mark on his forehead too where we collided. He glances at the mirror above the sink and taps his finger against it, but it's solid and he doesn't disappear like I expect him to. "Hmm," he says and then looks at me.

"You..." I manage slowly and swallow hard. My mouth is very dry.

"Yes?" he asks, happy that I've finally managed to speak. "You came out of my mirror," I say, feeling slightly nauseous. How hard did I hit my head?

"Yes," he confirms. "And you're taking that fact quite well. Of course I think you're in shock, but you aren't screaming, so I'll take that as a positive thing."

I feel dizzy. The edges of my vision start darkening and I have a strange sensation of my chest tightening, like I can't get enough air. I think I'm about to pass out. I've never done that before but then again I've never had someone come out of my mirror before.

"Oh," the boy says when he sees my eyes drop. I fall back onto the floor, hitting my head for the third time.

When I wake up the first thing I smell is butter. The first thing I hear is the crackling of eggs accompanied by the slightly off tune humming of Ed Sheeran's I See Fire, the same song I was singing when I got out of my shower. The first thing I feel is my throbbing skull.

I open my eyes slowly, silently praying that I'm dreaming and that when I open my eyes reality will come rushing back. But the reality is I'm lying on my bed in the corner of my apartment and my small kitchen is occupied by a boy dressed in a dark gray three piece suit with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His jacket is hanging on the back of one the chairs near the breakfast table against the wall.

I watch him wordlessly while my brain and body reboot and sync. The boy hums and taps the spatula against the countertop while eggs crackle and pop in the pan in front of him. The carton of eggs sits open on the counter and a loaf of bread has been opened. He's cooking, in my kitchen. He cooking while wearing a suit. There's a stranger cooking in my kitchen wearing a suit.

He doesn't notice I'm awake and I don't move or announce the fact. I'm afraid of what happens when I do. You're dreaming, I tell myself silently. British boys don't just jump out of mirrors and start cooking in your kitchen. Especially ones that look they are dressed for an elite business meeting. This has to be a dream.

But, my head throbs from where it was abused by hard objects and the blankets covering me feel solid and real. It doesn't feel like a dream. I notice the glint of a chain on the boy's vest when he lifts the spatula. I remember the pocket watch he pulled out before to check the time, an actual pocket watch, like something I'd see at an antique store.

I notice too that I'm still naked. The towel is poorly wrapped around my body unearth the blankets and the covers are pulled up to my shoulders, but I'm not wearing any underwear and I know for a fact that I didn't walk to the bed and lie myself down. Which means that the stranger in question must have carried me and saw more of me than I would deem acceptable.

I watch the boy's arms and shoulder as he cooks. The vest has a buckle in the back and his undershirt is white, but there aren't any creases or wrinkles. I know enough about clothes to understand that a suit and shirt don't just fit the curves of someone's body like that unless it's been tailored.

So a British boy, with a tailored three piece suit, came through my mirror and started cooking in my kitchen. It's too much. I throw the blankets off my body and hold the towel to my body with one hand. My feet hit the carpet silently. He doesn't turn around, his humming and the crackling eggs mask the sounds of my stirring.

Where did I put my phone? It's not plugged in on top of my dresser like it should be. I wordlessly let out a few cuss words and quietly search for my cellphone. I need to call 911, immediately. There are still boxes sitting on the floor from yesterday. I'm only halfway unpacked and I have to maneuverer my around them carefully to not make any noise.

I want to put some underwear and clothes on but I can't get into my dresser without making a ton of noise. The top drawer has a tendency to stick and make noise. The boy stops humming and I freeze, waiting for him to turn around. He flips whatever is cooking in the pan and goes back to humming.

Think, I tell myself. Where did you put your phone?

I look around on all of the open surfaces. I would have swore on a bible in front of a judge that I had put it on my dresser to charge last night, like I do every night. The boy opens a cupboard and I freeze again while he pulls down two plates and places them on the counter. He brings the pan to the plates and transfers whatever he's cooked onto them. I can't deny that it smells good.

"If you're looking for your phone. I've got it here," he says without turning around. He flips the stove off and puts the dirtied dishes into the sink.

I swallow hard. "What do you want from me? Money? Electronics? I don't have a lot of either."

The boy chuckles and turns around, plates in both hands. He places them onto the table. He moves back into the kitchen and pulls down two glasses and retrieves the orange juice from the fridge. He's lucky I went grocery shopping yesterday.

"I don't want any of that," he says and pours the juice.

"Then get the hell out," I tell him. "And give me my phone back."

The boy sits down at one of chairs and takes a sip of the orange juice. "Please, won't you join me for breakfast?" he asks.

"I want my phone back and I want you out of my apartment," I say, not moving. "I'll start screaming if you don't."

"Please don't," he says, looking genuinely worried. "I honestly didn't mean to frighten you before. In fact, I didn't mean to come here at all but now that I am I thought we might have a civil conversation."

"Civil?" I ask incredulously. "I'm in a fucking towel and I don't even know who you are!" My voice tightens and I take a sharp breath, trying to subdue my panick.

The boy stands up from his chair. I take a quick step backward, thinking he might mean to hurt me. I look around for anything that could be used as a weapon. There's a lamp resting on top of a box, it's still wrapped with bubble wrap but I grab it anyway, wielding in a way that might look threatening.

Holding the towel while threatening someone with a lamp is harder than I thought it would be. Not that I've spent a lot of time thinking about it, but still. I struggle to keep the towel in a decent place. "Stay back," I warn. "I will hurt you."

He looks slightly amused, but he doesn't move toward me. "I'm not going to hurt you," he says . "I promise." He places a hand over his heart.

"Get out," I tell him. "Get out right now or I swear I will start screaming. Get out!"

He sighs and looks down at his breakfast. "All right," he says giving up. He lifts his jacket off the back of his chair and pulls it on. "I'm going, there's no reason to scream or cause a commotion." Once his jacket is on he pulls my cell phone from his pocket and holds it up for me to see. "I'll leave this here," he says and places it on the table next to my plate. "I'd also appreciate it if you didn't call the police."

"Get out!"

He nods. "I'm going. I'm going." He moves for the door and I back up another step to keep distance between us. He flips the deadbolt and removes the chain from the lock and pulls the door open. Before he closes the door behind himself he gives me one last glance and then he's gone.

I stand frozen for a moment before I drop the lamp and rush to the door to relock it. Once I'm confident it's secure I slide down to the floor and watch my hands shake. "Oh my God," I say out loud. "Oh my God.OhmyGod.Ohmygod." I can't stop shaking. I sit on the floor in front of my door and shake while my heart pounds against my chest. I start to cry because I've never been so scared in my life.

When my mom and dad helped carry boxes up to my apartment yesterday I thought my mother was being overly dramatic about the dangers of living on my own. I'm not as incapable as they seem to think that I am. I know not to talk to strangers or open the door to my apartment willy-nilly when someone knocks. My mom fretted all morning yesterday about my safety along with my father and I rolled my eyes in annoyance like a normal daughter would.

I didn't actually believe that something like this would happen to me. After a while my heart starts to slow down in my chest. My head is throbbing and my hands are still shaking but I don't feel so charged. I'm still not sure what happened this morning. The more I think about it the less real it feels. I've heard stories about what the human brain is capable of doing, altering memories to make sense of things. Maybe that's what happened, it has to be. Because there's no way a British guy actually climbed out of my mirror this morning, right?