**The enchantment in the mirror** It was midnight when the moon settled softly on the golden frame of the old mirror. In the darkness, the room seemed suspended between sleep and wakefulness, between what you see and what you imagine. In front of the glass, she stopped —a figure shrouded in silver silence, with her fingers brushing the surface breathing a strange life—. The reflection did not imitate his gestures: I looked at her, But she was not. That other woman had a different glow in her eyes, an expression that vibrated between the sweet and the unfathomable. Her hair moved with a wind that did not exist, her skin seemed to weave light and mystery. There was something hypnotic, a whisper that invited cross. The mirror was not an object; It was a threshold. Every night , when the house went quiet, the image of the reflection became sharper, more alive , while reality blurred like a ancient memory. She, trembling with desire and fear, understood that what she saw was her deepest truth: the version of herself that never dared to be. The mirror figure stretched out his hand, pale like dawn. When I touched it , the cold turned into fire. a pulse, A heartbeat, a flood of sensations swept through her body like a melody that only mirrors know. The limits were dissolved. There was no more border between flesh and reflection. then, the glass closed like a flower at dawn. The room was left empty, and only one woman remained in the mirror —the one on the other side—, looking tenderly at the world behind. Since that night , They say that the mirror breathes. That if you get close enough, you will see in the background a look that is not your own, and you will feel the soft call of the impossible: the promise of being, por fin, the truest version of yourself.