The soft hum of blow dryers mixed with the scent of lavender oil and hair dye. The salon—Reverie & Co.—was bathed in warm golden light, the kind that made everything look dreamlike, even the rain tapping against the wide front window.
Sarah stepped inside, clutching her coat tight around her. She wasn’t used to places like this—sleek, elegant, full of glossy-haired women chatting about vacations and husbands. Her own reflection in the mirrored wall looked washed-out, a ghost with tired eyes and dull, shoulder-length hair. The receptionist gave her a quick smile.
“Welcome! You must be Sarah. Take a seat—Clara will be right with you.”
Sarah nodded and sank into the waiting chair, her fingers twisting together. She hadn’t been to a salon in years. Not since before Daniel died.
“Sarah?”
She looked up to see a woman in her forties with sharp eyes and soft features. Clara, the stylist, exuded an air of quiet control. “Come,” she said gently. “You’re ready.”
Sarah followed her to the chair. The mirror loomed before her—cold and honest.
“So,” Clara began, draping a black cape around Sarah’s shoulders. “What are we doing today?”
Sarah hesitated. “I don’t know. I just… need a change.”
Clara studied her in the mirror. “This isn’t just about hair,” she said softly. “It’s about bringing you back.”
The words pierced something deep inside. Sarah smiled weakly, blinking fast. “Yes. Maybe you’re right.”
Clara worked in silence for a while, combing, sectioning, snipping with precision. The rhythmic sound of the scissors was oddly soothing.
“How long since you’ve done something for yourself?” Clara asked, glancing up.
Sarah let out a small laugh. “Too long. My husband used to joke that I’d forget what I looked like.” Her smile faded. “He passed away last year.”
Clara paused, her expression unreadable. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Sarah murmured. “I’ve been… lost, I guess. The house is too quiet. Some nights, I still think I hear him.”
Clara’s eyes met hers in the mirror. “And today you want to stop hearing him.”
Sarah’s heart skipped. “What?”
Clara smiled faintly. “You want to let him go. That’s what this is about.”
Sarah nodded, unsure why her throat felt tight.
The minutes melted away as the dull strands of her old life fell to the floor. Clara mixed colors—rich chestnut with streaks of honey—and began to paint them onto Sarah’s hair like strokes on a canvas. The air filled with the warm, chemical scent of transformation.
As the dye processed, Clara began talking. Not idle chatter, but questions—probing, oddly intimate ones.
“Do you ever dream about him?”
Sarah blinked. “Sometimes.”
“What happens in those dreams?”
“He’s standing by the window,” Sarah said slowly. “Just… watching. He never says anything.”
Clara tilted her head. “Does that scare you?”
“No,” Sarah whispered. “It feels like he’s waiting.”
“Maybe he is,” Clara said softly. “Waiting for you to remember who you are without him.”
Sarah frowned. “How do you know all this?”
Clara only smiled. “I’ve seen it before. People who come here—they think they just need a haircut. But sometimes, they need release.”
When the timer beeped, Clara led her to the sink. The water was warm, comforting, as she massaged Sarah’s scalp. Her fingers were gentle but firm, almost hypnotic. Sarah’s eyes fluttered shut.
For a moment, she drifted into something between sleep and memory—the feel of Daniel’s hand in hers, the laughter echoing in their kitchen, the sudden silence that followed the accident.
Then Clara’s voice cut through. “You can let go now.”
Sarah’s eyes opened. “What?”
“The past,” Clara said, rinsing away the dye. “It’s gone now.”
Back at the chair, Clara blow-dried her hair, shaping it, styling it. As the steam rose, Sarah felt lighter, freer. The woman in the mirror no longer looked defeated. She looked… alive.
When the chair turned to face the mirror, Sarah gasped.
“That’s—me?” she whispered, hand trembling to touch her cheek. Her eyes shone. “It’s like I can breathe again.”
Clara smiled. “You see? She was there all along.”
Sarah laughed softly. “You’re amazing.”
Clara leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Promise me something, Sarah.”
“What?”
“When you go home tonight, burn the photograph.”
Sarah froze. “What photograph?”
Clara’s gaze deepened. “The one on your dresser. The one of Daniel by the window.”
Sarah’s heart thudded. “How do you—?”
But Clara had already turned away, wiping her hands, as if nothing had happened. “Just a hunch,” she said with a faint smile.
That night, back in her small house, Sarah couldn’t stop staring at her reflection. The new haircut suited her perfectly. She looked ten years younger, almost unrecognizable.
But Clara’s words lingered.
Burn the photograph.
She walked into the bedroom. The framed photo sat exactly where it always had—on the dresser near the window. Daniel stood smiling in the picture, sunlight in his hair.
For a moment, Sarah’s heart clenched. “I can’t,” she whispered. “Not yet.”
The wind outside rose, rustling the curtains. Somewhere in the house, a faint tapping echoed—steady, rhythmic, like knuckles against glass.
Sarah turned slowly toward the window.
There, in the reflection of the glass, a shadow moved.
Her breath caught. “Daniel?”
The tapping grew louder.
The lights flickered.
She stepped closer—hand trembling—and saw him.
Daniel. Standing outside in the rain, expression blank, eyes hollow. Water streamed down his face as he lifted one hand and pressed it to the glass.
“Sarah,” his voice rasped, barely audible. “Why did you change?”
Her scream caught in her throat.
She stumbled backward—and the photo on the dresser fell, the glass shattering. The frame cracked open.
Inside, beneath the photo, was a card.
A white one, embossed with silver letters:
“Reverie & Co. — The Mirror Salon”
And on the back, handwritten:
Once the mirror shows you who you are,
the past comes looking, too.
The next morning, police found Sarah’s front door ajar and the house empty. The only clue was a small lock of freshly cut hair resting on her vanity—perfectly coiled, still warm—as though left by unseen hands.
The Mirror Salon closed a week later. The building was abandoned, but if you walked past its dust-covered window, you could still see the faint outline of two women reflected inside—one styling, the other staring blankly into the glass.
And if you looked long enough, the reflection would turn and smile.
Just like Clara had.