The hallway had long been abandoned. The flowery wallpaper was peeling and cracked, mould creeping in through the crevices. The woven rug beneath his feet was fraying, deep auburn strands slipping between the floorboards. Masahiko counted no less than three hatstands, each of them missing a limb or two. At the end of the hallway was his destination. A warped wooden door, sagging slightly ajar.

A gilded mirror was propped against the back wall, its surface dulled with age and spotted in the corners. Masahiko would've strolled past it - it was an antique, after all - but then his eyes caught on his reflection.

'The hell?' Masahiko staggered back, nearly bowling over the nearest hat-stand.

The man reflected before him was not him - couldn't be him. And yet ... He was the same height, same build. Had the same sloping shoulders, the same slight curl to his mouth as he muttered something to himself.

But his face was thinner, cheekbones more pronounced, as if he’d forgotten to take care of himself. And his hair was longer - almost at his shoulders - and pinned back like the female dancers at the ballet school. He looked … good.

Masahiko swallowed thickly. Surely it was just a trick of the light?

Then his reflection met his gaze and Masahiko knew, he knew, this was real and that somehow he was seeing himself not now, but in the future.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said, ‘why are you showing me this?’

His reflection squared his shoulders, clearly anticipating resistance. ‘Because,’ he said levelly, and his voice was a deep baritone, ‘you don’t listen.’

Masahiko crossed his arms over his chest. ‘That means you don’t either.’

His reflection sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between dirt-stained fingers. Masahiko glanced down at his own. They were immaculate.

‘Please, for once, save your comments until the end.’

With great effort, Masahiko bit his tongue.

‘Excellent,’ his reflection continued, ‘now, whatever you do, do not go through that door.’