Yakabatanidzwa ruzha

Your reflection smiles before you do. Then your face moves on its own. Panic claws at your chest, but your body won’t obey. Every breath feels borrowed, every heartbeat mirrored. The glass beneath you shatters, spilling stars that twist and coil like living fire. And then it hits you—the forest isn’t behind you. It’s inside you. Every step you took, every memory you thought was yours, is being rewritten, folded into something older, something alive. The thing in the glass isn’t watching you. I