The mirror in the hallway caught her reflection every morning, a ritual Sarah couldn’t avoid. She would pause there, combing her fingers through her hair, searching for signs of the woman Tom had loved. His face lingered in her mind, sharp as the day he left—gone in that car crash three years ago. Or was it four? Time blurred since then, the days folding into one another like worn pages in a book she’d read too many times.

She brewed coffee, the aroma filling the small kitchen, and sat at the table with the photo album. The first crack appeared in the memory of their wedding day. She remembered the rain, the way it drummed against the chapel windows like impatient fingers. Tom’s hand warm in hers, his vows whispered with that crooked smile. But when she flipped to the picture, the sky was clear, the sun casting long shadows over the guests’ smiles. No rain. Had she imagined it? Her pulse quickened, a familiar unease settling in her chest.

‘Tom,’ she murmured, tracing his image. ‘Why can’t I remember right anymore?’

The house was quiet, too quiet. Sarah had sold their old place after the accident, downsized to this cottage on the edge of town. Isolation suited her grief, or so she told herself. Friends had drifted away, their calls unanswered. She preferred the company of memories, piecing them together like a puzzle with missing edges.

That afternoon, she walked to the mailbox, the gravel crunching underfoot. A letter waited, no stamp, just her name in Tom’s handwriting. Her heart stuttered. Impossible. She tore it open inside, hands trembling.

‘Sarah, I’m sorry for the fight. Come find me. -T’

The words swam before her eyes. A prank? But the slant of the ‘S’, the loop of the ‘y’—it was him. She reread their last argument, the one before the crash. He’d stormed out after she accused him of cheating. Words she regretted now, born of paranoia. Had he survived? No, the police said the car was totaled, body unidentified due to fire. But doubt crept in.

She spent the evening pacing, replaying moments. Their first date at the pier, cotton candy sticking to her fingers, his laugh echoing over the waves. Yet, in the memory, the sun set in the east. Impossible. She shook her head, blaming stress. But sleep evaded her, the house groaning like it held secrets.

Morning brought more discrepancies. The scar on Tom’s forearm—from a biking accident when they were kids, he’d said. But in every photo, no scar. She zoomed in on her phone, pixels blurring the skin smooth. Her breath came short. Was she losing her mind?

Driven by the letter, she drove to the old neighborhood, parking outside their former home. The new owners had painted it blue. She knocked, heart pounding. A woman answered, polite but wary.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I used to live here. With my husband, Tom. Did he… ever come back after?’

The woman frowned. ‘Tom? No one’s named Tom here. We bought it from a widow, Sarah something. You?’

Sarah’s world tilted. ‘That’s me. I sold it after he died.’

Confusion crossed the woman’s face. ‘Died? The realtor said you moved for work. No mention of a husband.’

Back home, Sarah tore through drawers, hunting proof. Marriage certificate—there, but the date was wrong, a year off from her memory. Wedding ring? Missing. She checked her finger; she’d stopped wearing it months ago, but where was it?

Voices whispered at night now, Tom’s voice, urging her on. ‘Remember, Sarah. Remember me.’ She bolted awake, sweating, the clock reading 3:17—the exact time of the crash.

Desperate, she called her best friend, Lisa. No answer. Voicemail: ‘Lisa, it’s Sarah. Did Tom and I… was our marriage real? Call me.’

Days blurred. She scoured online records, obits—nothing for Tom. Her own social media: posts about trips, anniversaries, but comments from ‘friends’ she didn’t recognize. Impostor accounts?

The letter gnawed at her. She returned to the mailbox daily. Another note: ‘Closer. Check the attic.’

The attic ladder creaked as she climbed, dust motes dancing in the beam from her flashlight. Boxes of ‘their’ mementos: tickets to a concert she didn’t recall, a love letter dated after the crash. Panic rose. How?

A shadow moved. She spun. ‘Tom?’

No one. But on the floor, a Polaroid: her smiling with a man—not Tom. Face blurred, but the eyes… familiar.

Introspection turned to obsession. Sarah journaled furiously, dissecting memories. Their honeymoon in Paris—Eiffel Tower at night. But news clippings showed it closed for repairs that week. Lies? Her lies?

Tension coiled tighter. She avoided mirrors, afraid of the stranger staring back. Who was she if not Tom’s wife?

Lisa finally called. ‘Sarah? You okay? Your message was weird.’

‘Tell me about Tom. Our wedding.’

Silence. ‘Sarah, you never married. Tom was your brother. He died in that crash, yeah, but you were alone. You’ve been grieving, seeing therapists.’

Lies! ‘No, we were married!’

‘Sweetie, get help. You’re scaring me.’

Click.

Rage, denial. Sarah smashed the phone. Alone again.

The notes continued. Third: ‘The mirror. Look deeper.’

She approached the hallway mirror at midnight, candlelight flickering. Her reflection stared, eyes hollow. Leaning close, she saw it—a faint outline behind her, Tom’s face grinning.

‘Tom!’ She whirled. Empty hall.

Back to mirror. He was there, mouthing words. ‘It’s me. Remember.’

She touched the glass. Cold. Then, a memory surfaced, unbidden: not wedding rain, but hospital rain. Tom—no, brother?—dying, her confessing something.

Fragments: childhood, Tom protecting her from father. The crash—she driving, drunk, after fight.

No. She was passenger.

The house felt smaller, walls pressing. Paranoia? Or truth unraveling?

Final note in mailbox: ‘Now.’

She knew. The old pier. Dusk fell as she arrived, waves crashing. Footsteps behind.

‘Sarah.’

She turned. A man, face shadowed. ‘Tom?’

He stepped into light. Not Tom. Older, gaunt. ‘Dr. Harlan. Your doctor.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve been making progress, but the delusions…’

‘No! The letters, the memories!’

He sighed. ‘Sarah, this is an exercise. Reality therapy. You’ve been in the facility for five years. The crash killed your fiancé, Mark, not Tom. Tom never existed beyond your invention. You created him to replace Mark’s memory because you blame yourself—you argued, distracted him while driving.’

Her mind reeled. Flashes: real memories resurfacing. Mark’s real face in photos she’d misremembered as Tom’s. The scar on Mark’s arm. Wedding under sun. Letters? Her own handwriting, planted by therapy staff.

The house? A replica on ward grounds. Friends? Staff actors.

‘But the mirror…’

‘Your reflection, Sarah. You’ve been talking to yourself.’

She collapsed, sobs wracking. All those cherished moments—twisted echoes of truth. The love, the fights, the grief—built on sand.

Dr. Harlan helped her up. ‘Time to face reality.’

As they walked away, the pier faded—not real ocean, but a painted backdrop. The world sharpened, painful, true.

In her room—no, cell—she stared at the real mirror. No shadows. Just Sarah, alone, remembering Mark correctly at last. The guilt crashed like waves, real this time. But in acceptance, a fragile peace.