The elderly lady shuffled the few remaining steps to the park bench and sat down, happy to catch her breath and rest for a moment. The autumn sunshine was warm, but the nip in the air made her glad of her warm coat. She placed her handbag neatly on her knee.

“Good morning,” said the silver-haired gentleman at the other end of the bench. “Beautiful day.”

Elsie smiled. “Yes, it is. Cold, but lovely.”

The man folded his newspaper and returned the smile. “I’m George.”

“Hello, George. I’m Elsie.” She re-arranged her scarf, her gnarled fingers struggling in the cold.

They sat for a few moments quietly, looking over the city. “I’ve always loved this view.” 

“Pardon?”

“The view,” George repeated. “I’ve been coming here since I was a boy. I used to watch the trains.”

Elsie looked to where George was pointing, down the hill towards the city. 

“I liked the steam trains. Do you see?” He added. 

“Yes, I can see. No more steam trains now, though, I’m afraid. It was different, then.”

George nodded. “It was. I’d travel the country. My folks had no idea where I was half the time. It wasn’t like it is today.” He paused. “Do you have children?”

“Yes, two. And grandchildren, now.”

“Then you’re blessed. What are their names?” George turned to look at Elsie, noticing her careworn face, the long, white plait that rested over her shoulder.

“Timothy, is the eldest. He has two little ones of his own now.” Elsie said, proudly. “Well, not so little now. They’ve grown and gone, too. I don’t get to see them as much as I’d like.”

“I’ve always liked the name Timothy.”

Elsie smiled. “And then there’s Ellen. She got married, finally, last year. She’s nearly sixty! She finally took the plunge.”

“Well that’s lovely!”

“It is. It was. She looked beautiful.”

George sat back. “I always wanted children.”

Another few moments passed by, quietly. 

Elsie looked over. “You can read your newspaper, George. I don’t mind.”

“No, no. It’s okay. I don’t often get chance to chat. Especially with a beautiful woman.” He said, with a wink. 

Elsie chuckled. “Charmer. I bet you broke some hearts.”

“I don’t know about that!”

“Did you grow up around here, then?”

“Yes,” replied George. “Not far. And I went to school here, too. Calder… Calder something.” He shook his head. “I forget.”

“Age does that to us, doesn’t it?” Elsie asked, softly.

George shrugged. “I guess it does.”

She sighed. “It takes away the most precious things. Our bodies, our minds, our memories.” 

They fell into quiet again, both looking at the city sprawled out before them, lost in their own thoughts.

“May I ask you something, George?” 

He turned to look at her again. “Of course!”

“Have you ever married?”

George shook his head. “No, I never married. There was a girl I knew… once. I forget her name. Have you?”

“Yes. I was lucky enough to marry my best friend. The love of my life.”

“Well that’s wonderful!”

“Yes. It was wonderful. I’ve… lost him now. And it’s lonely. Terribly, terribly lonely.” Elsie looked down at her lap.

George reached over and took her hand, tenderly. “I’m very sorry for your loss. How long ago?” 

“Around five years ago. Nothing has been the same since.” Tears filled her once, bright blue eyes. They were cloudy now; age and sorrow had faded their beauty. 

George frowned. “That’s such a shame. Do you have anyone close?”

Elsie shook her head. “They have their own lives. Timothy is in Chester, Ellen in Manchester. And I feel like all I do is cross names out of my address book.” She paused. “All of my friends… They’re all gone.” 

George reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and offered it to her. “There, now. It’s okay.”

Elsie managed a small smile. “Thank you.” She wiped her eyes. “It’s silly. You must think I’m an old fool, sitting on a bench, crying.”

“Not at all.”

“Well I feel like an old fool. I should be glad of what I have. I’m still here, my children are happy and healthy. You were right, I have been blessed.”

George looked puzzled. “What?”

“A minute ago, you said I was blessed. For having my children.”

“Oh, that’s right.” He shook his head. “I’m more forgetful, the older I get.”

Elsie tried to pass the handkerchief back but George refused. “Keep it, I have plenty.”

“Okay, I will. Thank you.” She opened her handbag and tucked the handkerchief inside. She snapped it shut again. “It’s a funny old life, George, don’t you think?”

He tilted his head, not understanding. “In what way?”

“I just… can’t believe I’m here. At the end of my life. And what do I really have to show for it?”

George didn’t reply. 

“I don’t feel any different than I did ten years ago. Twenty years ago, even. And now when I look in the mirror, an old woman looks back.” She sighed. “It all feels so… pointless.”

George cleared his throat. “I don’t know how to help you with that one, I’m afraid,” he said, a little uncomfortably.

“I know, George. I don’t expect answers. I just wanted to say it out loud.”

Quiet fell again. 

“I used to take the trains, you know. All around the country.”

“Yes. You said.”

George laughed. “I did?” 

Elsie smiled, indulgently. “Yes. And your parents didn’t know.”

“Not a clue. Not like today.”

“No, George. It isn’t like today at all.”

George turned to look at her. “Do you know, you seem really familiar. Have we met before?”

Elsie sighed. “Yes. We have met.”

George frowned. 

“And it’s time we went home. This cold is getting right to my bones.”

George continued to frown. 

“Come on. I’ve got a casserole in the oven. And then it’s time for the racing. You like the racing.” She stood, stiffly, then held her hand out. She smiled, encouragingly. “Come on, George. Home time.”

George stood, still frowning. “Home?”

“Yes, sweetheart. Home. And we can ring Tim later and see him on the screen. Remember?”

George nodded slightly and stood. 

“Don’t forget your paper.”

The elderly couple walked away from the park bench where they had sat every Sunday morning for the past fifty years, hand in hand, back to the house where they had raised their children. Empty now, thought Elsie as she lead her husband back through the park. Entirely empty.

I first saw her in the mirror.

Me, but not-me.

Same, but not-same.

In the beginning, there were flashes, something caught in the corner of my eye. Turning and then just seeing her. Myself. Normal. Shrugging. The woman in the mirror responding as she should.

But then, suddenly, it stopped. Her own movements. No denying her presence.

There were differences; hair length and colour, not-same.

And similarities; eyes, same. Expression when scared witless, same.

She can’t talk to me. She is frustrated. She can’t hear me. More frustration.  

I wrote a note, scribbled on the back of a supermarket receipt.

Noticing; when did I stop buying paper?

What do you want? A simple question, maybe a simple answer.

Flailing, wildly. Tapping on the glass, banging on the glass. Surely it will break? What then?

She looks around, trying to find something to write on. I see her surroundings. The room is dark, there is a candle. A candle? I frown. Where is she-me?

I lose her as she moves away from the mirror. I see myself. My real self. The one here, in the hall, in my house, daylight, familiar.

She reappears. She has… what is that? Coal? Strange. She writes on the mirror, it is backwards. I cannot make it out.

More frustration. Then she’s gone. The mirror-window between us closes.

I shake my head. Imagination?

I walk to the kitchen. He is there, tied to a kitchen chair, where I left him. Not imagination. Real. He is asleep. I wake him.

He looks around, startled in his sudden now-awake.

I tilt my head and look. His bruises are healing. I haven’t thought this through.

I untie him and we stumble to the bathroom. I keep a gun trained on him. I don’t want to clean up his piss.

He groans as his legs support his weight. He slumps against the wall in the downstairs bathroom. It’s colour-coordinated. A nice house. No-one would expect. 

I take him back to the chair. Knots. I learned well. 

Voice croaky, un-used. Almost a whisper. “When will you let me go?” 

I frown. I don’t know. I don’t know what to do now. I don’t know what’s next. This story has kept me alive since she died. 

I shrug. “I might not. You might die here.” Attempt at nonchalance. It almost seems to work.

“You won’t kill me.” Confident.

“Why not? You killed her.” Did I answer out loud? I can’t be sure.

He meets my eyes. “You’re not like me.”

He’s right. I’m not. I have a shadow-sister, a me-not-me in the glass. He can’t boast that.

The mirror. I walk away, back to the hall. I need to know. He cannot have my attention right now. There are bigger things.

I turn quickly, and she’s there. The room is still dark, the candle burned lower. Time has passed. More time than here. Odd.

I look at her again and then look passed.

She is not alone.

I squint at the darkness. She stands back to let me see. It’s her. We are there together. 

Something stirs. A memory. The room looks familiar. Do I know this place?

A noise! My attention snaps away. The kitchen. Door open, swinging on its hinge in the breeze and he is gone. Maybe knots not so good. 

I think and tilt my head. A habit. Problem solved? He cannot tell, because he would have to tell it all. But am I safe?

I return to the mirror. It has my full attention. I look again. I look.

A bed, sheets dirty. A tiny window, greasy, dull. A cellar, then. I close my eyes. I can smell the must. I do know this place.

This time, when she taps the glass I can hear it. I glance back to look at her and she shakes her head, once, twice, slowly. She is telling me no. But no to what? I falter, unsure as to whether to trust her-me.   

There is an awfully good chance this is all in my head.

She points. To my-her sister. She is on the bed, bound. A nightshirt.

I turn away. I can’t do this. It’s too much. I’ve been there before. This is a memory.

These are things I had forgotten, misplaced, chased. These thoughts do not belong in my head any more. I’ve moved past them. I caught him. I caught him. Revenge. Vengence.

But I’m brave, I look again. She points to the little window and then runs across the room and smashes it. Shards. I know what happens next.

I watch as she-me slowly cuts the bindings on her wrists. She is free, but he is oh-so angry. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have done it. I should have left her tied, bound, safe. A laugh. Safe? We were never safe. I have forgotten what safety means.

The story replays in slow-motion. The door opens. He descends. He sees. I stand in front, he swipes. I’m gone, stars and darkness. I cannot help her. I did this to her. 

She is a doll. He can do what he wants. I cannot stop him. He reaches, hand around her neck and snaps. Life gone. Lifeless. Limp. I run. He’s forgotten to shut the door. We have never tried this before. He didn’t expect it. 

I cannot see where I am running. The light is bright. Somehow, I am home. Home is empty. She is still in the cellar.

Too much. I step back. Mirror is just mirror. I look. Hair long, lank. I was doing better for a while. Circles. Dark. No sleep. Sleep means dreaming, and dreaming means waking, and forgetting that’s she has gone. 

No. The forgetting isn’t the problem. It’s the remembering that hurts.

I don’t recogise myself in the reflection. The other-me looks more familiar. 

I avenged. I found him. I took him. I made him hurt. I lost him. The kitchen is empty. Gone but not-gone. He will wait. He cannot let me go. I’m a risk.   

She was telling me not to leave, but it’s okay. The once-shake, twice-shake. Stay here, with me. Don’t go outside. 

But it’s okay. I know, now, what the me-she was telling us. I know, now, how my story ends. I embrace it. I need it. I want it.

Three steps out into the garden. Dew. My feet are wet.

And then I feel it. Cold steel against my neck. I see her. She reaches out. My body collapses, this chapter over. End.