She touched her face — smooth, young. But the mirror-self smiled with cracked lips, winked, then pointed a gnarled finger toward the window. Outside, a second moon hung low, pulsing like a heartbeat.

Chloe woke to find her reflection in the bathroom mirror had aged forty years overnight.

“You’re the dream I forgot to wake up from,” said the other Chloe. “And now we’re both late for a funeral that hasn’t happened yet.”

They stepped together into the photograph. The fire went out. The clocks all struck thirteen.

The figure stood, pulled back its hood. Same face. Same scar on the chin. But the eyes — inverted colors, sclera black, irises white.

Chloe looked down. Her hands were translucent. Through them, she saw the floor — no, not a floor. A photograph of her childhood bedroom, burning slowly at the edges.

“You’re late,” the figure said, voice familiar. “We have to rewind yesterday before it becomes today.”

“What am I?” she whispered.