Every morning, I approach the antique mirror in the forest glade with trepidation. Its ornate golden frame seems to writhe and twist, defying the laws of nature. As I gaze into its depths, I'm never certain what I'll see.

Today, like every day, my reflection is not my own. Instead, a creature of flame and shadow stares back at me, its eyes burning with an otherworldly intensity. Its horns curl menacingly above a face that's both familiar and alien.

I reach out, my pale fingers nearly touching the glass. The demon mimics my movement, its fiery hand extending towards mine. I wonder, not for the first time, which of us is the reflection and which is real.

This mirror, I've learned, doesn't show what's on the surface. It reveals the truths we hide, the parts of ourselves we fear to acknowledge. In its unforgiving gaze, I see my inner demons made flesh.

But I return each day, drawn by an irresistible pull. For in facing this terrifying reflection, I find a strange comfort. It reminds me that we all have darkness within us, and that acknowledging it is the first step towards understanding ourselves.

As I turn away, I feel both unsettled and oddly empowered. Tomorrow, I'll return. For better or worse, this is who I am when I look in the mirror.