The mirrors reflected not his face, but every version of himself he’d buried: the painter, the sailor, the person who laughed without checking first.

“What do I imagine?” he asked.

The gate swung open.

The hallway was gone. In its place stood the entrance to the carnival — rusted gates, a single flickering bulb, and a sign that read:

That night, he dreamed of the broken mirrors.

“Took you long enough,” said the fortune teller. She held out a shard of glass. “The game never ended, Leo. It just needed you to make the first move again.”

He imagined himself home — not a place, but a feeling. Solid. Brave. Worthy of wonder.