The Wanderer knew he had reached the outskirts of the fabled city long before its walls came into view. The air itself seemed to shimmer, as if some unseen magic ran beneath the earth’s surface. The distant horizon took on a wavering, silver hue—a promise and a warning of what lay ahead.

  He crested a low hill and there it was, its spires and rooftops gleaming beneath a hazy sky. The city seemed shaped from polished stone, metal, and glass, reflecting the shifting clouds above. By day, the entire skyline danced with dazzling shards of light; by night, travelers whispered, the streets became a maze of starlit mirrors, a place where illusions bled into reality.

  A wide archway, carved from some reflective material, marked the official entrance. As he stepped under its smooth curve, the Wanderer felt the familiar weight of the lantern in his hand—its flame still unwavering, though it paled in comparison to the piercing reflections of the city’s fa?ade. For a moment, he paused to study his own face in that towering arch. The reflection looked slightly distorted, as if both older and younger at once. He tore his eyes away, a faint shiver running down his spine.

  Inside, the streets were unnervingly silent for such a grand place. Buildings of varying heights lined each side, their surfaces glossy as polished mirrors. Every step he took seemed to echo, magnified by the reflective walls into a chorus of footfalls. When he glanced to his left, he saw himself repeated a dozen times in quick succession—the first reflection near and sharp, the others fading into spectral outlines as the angles shifted.

  He pressed on, each turn revealing new reflective surfaces. The city offered glimpses of himself from countless angles: the wandering figure with a battered cloak, dusty boots, and a lantern that refused to dim. Yet there was something more than mere reflections. Sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the shadows of other figures—almost like memories or possibilities—lurking in the glass.

  Rounding a bend in the narrow street, he came upon a wide courtyard where a circular fountain rose from the center. The water within was so clear it looked like molten silver. Surrounding the fountain stood half a dozen tall mirror panels, each angled in a different direction, capturing sunlight that danced in dazzling patterns.

  Cautiously, the Wanderer approached. At first, he saw only himself—the same weary face, the same solemn eyes. But as he stepped to the side, the image in the mirror shifted. He blinked, momentarily disoriented.

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  In one panel, he saw a younger version of himself, clothes unwrinkled, eyes brimming with curiosity and excitement. The younger reflection looked upon him with an almost accusatory stare, as if asking What did you do with all our hope?

  Startled, he moved to another mirror. This time, his reflection was broken— shoulders sagging, face etched with deep lines of regret. This version carried the lantern too, but its glow flickered as though fighting to stay alive. A heaviness clung to the reflection, and though the glass was silent, the Wanderer sensed a plea: Help me let go.

  He stumbled away, chest tightening. The third mirror he faced showed him without the lantern entirely. In that scene, he stood in a modest cottage, wearing simple clothes stained with earth and sweat—perhaps from tilling land or building a home. He looked content, as though life’s burdens were spread evenly across calm days and quiet nights. Yet, in that reflection’s eyes, there was a faint longing—as if it, too, wondered about the roads never taken.

  The Wanderer felt his throat tighten, torn between envy and unease. He turned in a slow circle, surrounded by these mirrored specters of himself—past, future, and parallel. The courtyard was silent except for the muted trickle of water in the fountain. It was as though the city had seized upon every doubt, dream, and regret he’d ever harbored and laid them bare before him.

  A swirl of wind rippled across the water, scattering fractured lights across the mirrors and his own unsettled face. He gripped the lantern’s handle more tightly, fighting an urge to smash the reflections and flee. Yet he knew the truth: Breaking the mirrors would not change what they revealed.

  Instead, he forced himself to breathe, to look, to accept. The city offered no illusions, only the reflections within himself he’d long avoided. Slowly, he moved closer to one of the panels and placed a trembling hand against the cold glass. He peered into the eyes of the younger Wanderer, remembering the thrill of believing— truly believing—that carrying the lantern was a destiny.

  His voice came out hoarse in the still air. “I—I’m sorry,” he whispered, unsure if he was speaking to that hopeful youth or to himself.

  The reflection in the mirror only stared back, silent and unwavering, as though waiting to see what he would do next. And in the hush of the courtyard, the Wanderer realized that leaving this place would not be as simple as turning around. He would have to face every version of himself— the ones that rose from memory, the ones that lurked in regret, and the ones that hinted at a different life.

  He closed his eyes, lantern in hand, and listened to the fountain’s soft murmur. The City of Mirrors was no mere spectacle—it was a trial of the soul. And for the first time in a long while, he felt a tremor of resolve: If I am to move forward, I must see clearly all that I have been, and all that I could become.

  With that silent vow, he opened his eyes, turning once more to the reflections, ready— or as ready as he could be—to face what they had to show him.