The mirror never forgets the original.
It remembers the version of you that turned left.
The one that stayed.
The one who left earlier.
The one that said no.
You are not the first draft.
You are the surviving edit.
Each morning, you step into the glass, and the glass checks your alignment. Not cruelly. Just thoroughly.
Some days it feels like you are a copy of a copy of a copy.
But copies only exist because something real existed first.
And somewhere — in some quiet fold of possibility — the original still hums.
Not better.
Not worse.
Just unedited.
