When friends visited Lydia’s home, even for the millionth time, they always commented on that one room- the “TV room.” Despite its newer namesake on the other side of the house, she had always been drawn to its dated coziness- through its half-broken bamboo blinds, red carpet, 1950 lamps, and a black couch with eternally smushed pillows (courtesy of the dog). No, it wasn’t the ambiance that caused every entering person to describe it as “creepy-” it was the photos. 

Her father meticulously pressed their school photos under the glass, without a single wrinkle, and tucked them in with the metal clip at the top. Unlike the 103 other photos in that room, they were always aligned perfectly. 

“Dad, why do you care so much about keeping these photos up?” Lydia asked, not wanting to look at herself on display every time she entered that room. 

He slowly turned to meet her eyes and whispered, “So you don’t forget.”

Eyes. Every eye in every photo, staring at them. Lydia never found it unnerving- looking at herself smiling, shining, perfectly prepared for the camera's flash. Those photos were mementos to the past- sometimes if she stayed in the room long enough and late enough, she could almost feel those eyes meet her own. If she concentrated hard enough, she could nearly smell the cherry lollipops she ate just before the photo. Perhaps a childhood embrace wasn’t the worst thing to warm her up. However, there was still a faint whisper she couldn’t fully decipher- “Why didn’t you…”

Spring cleaning was the worst thing that could happen to a hoarder. Not exactly a hoarder, per se, but someone for whom everything has a sentimental value. When the wardrobes of her family shifted from heavy winter coats to lighter spring cottons, she always found herself clinging to random, outgrown clothing- hand-knit slippers, cropped jeggings, and dresses. The dresses were the things Lydia held dearest. When forced to try on every piece of clothing for hours to see what still fit that year, she sucked and squeezed herself into that one, bright turquoise mini dress. She’s not sure what drew her to it, but she remembered being so proud of picking that dress out for her fifth-grade picture day paired with a comically large flowery headband. Late at night, her eyes critically traced it on her body through the mirror.

Her mother brushed her hands across her cheeks and ran them through her hair so gently it could have been the wind blowing through a field. Lydia was never quite put together- hair a little too curly, cheeks slightly too pale, shoes with one too many scuffs. But that dress- her favorite shade of turquoise- stood out with impossibly unwrinkled fabric. Still, her hands continued their existential rhythm- smoothing, smoothing, smoothing. Rubbing her hands over the soft fabric in an attempt to calm herself before the ever-important photo was futile. She could not calm herself in the way she needed. 

That same mirror bore witness to the repetitive grooming routine from that picture day. Still unwrinkled, it was almost as if that same motion was still there- a constant smoothing, smoothing, smoothing, of the skirt. She wasn’t sure if it was calming or alarming- the fact that she could feel her childhood hands pressing against her heartbeat or the fact that she enjoyed it. Whispers of long-forgotten memories muffled her brain, and her reflection in the mirror showed her younger self with those soft hands she remembered intertwined with her own.

Was it a dream? No, she knew it couldn’t have been.

The dress still lay on her floor, seams stretched out and all. The one peculiarity, though, was the mirror that appeared foggy despite the dry air in her room. Maybe that same dryness was what gave her a thundering headache upon waking- it was difficult for her to tell if it was a true headache or an onslaught of whispers. Groggy and tired, she couldn’t figure out what they were saying until they reached the pinnacle of intensity that afternoon. Longing for her mind to feel peaceful at once, she sprinted to her room and gazed doubtfully at the mirror. Her childhood reflection stared back piercingly. 

“Come with me?” she asked, with an eery confidence.

“What?”

“I know you want to fix it.”

Of course, she knew her too well. Lydia knew she was playing right into her own hands, but she had no desire to stop.

“Take me,” Lydia commanded shakily.

Mist pooled around the mirror as a hand extended through. Lydia knew to step through.

            This scene in her memory haunted her. When she pressed play on her mind’s remote, it only streamed in slow motion. But standing in her elementary gymnasium, watching her mother’s hands run across her own two cheeks, she felt as if she was still watching through a screen in her mind. No whispers were egging her to continue, and she felt unable to move, scream, or run, as she wished to.

And then she snapped.

Sprinting after her childhood self, who continued to push away her mother’s warm hands and embrace, she grabbed herself and hurriedly asked, 

“Do you love your mother?”

Confused, young Lydia, who had screamed at her mother in disgust just moments before, looked down to whisper a soft “yes.”

“Tell her that. Please.”

As she was running teary-eyed to hug her mother, Lydia could only catch a glimpse of her mother’s smile before she stumbled back out of her bedroom mirror. Although the turquoise dress was nowhere to be seen, and her school picture was slightly more bleary than before- at least Lydia could live with knowing she told her mother “I love you,” and feeling her embrace while she was still warm with enough breath to respond.