I didn't expect the town square to be crowded that morning. It was early, colder than usual, and the sky had that dull, grey look that normally kept everyone indoors. Yet people were everywhere—clustered around the news van, standing on benches, talking in tight circles like they were afraid someone would overhear them.
I kept my head down and walked toward the coffee stall, trying not to get dragged into anything. I'd barely slept, and the last thing I wanted was another conversation about Ethan, or the banners declaring the killer was "finally caught," or the empty reassurances that everyone could "sleep peacefully again." Peace wasn't something you could force on yourself. Either you felt it or you didn't. And I didn't.
But the crowd wasn't buzzing about Ethan. They were buzzing about something new. Something worse.
I heard it before I reached the front:
"They released a sketch."
"A new suspect."
"But I thought—didn't they—"
"No. This one's different. This one's… unsettling."
My stomach tightened. A sketch? After claiming they'd caught the killer? After swearing on live television that Ethan was responsible for everything? After telling us to stop worrying and just move on?
I should have walked away. Gone home. Avoided the entire conversation. But my feet carried me forward, slow and shaky, like I already knew what was coming.
The detective giving the statement looked exhausted. The bags under his eyes were darker than usual, and he kept rubbing his temples between sentences. He held up the sketch with quiet reluctance, like he didn't want to be the one responsible for showing it to the world.
I stood at the edge of the crowd and lifted my gaze.
The air left my lungs.
It was a man's face—sharp jawline, tired eyes, hair slightly messy like he never cared enough to fix it properly. He had a calm expression, almost gentle, the kind of face people walked past without a second thought. Not striking. Not remarkable. Just familiar.
Too familiar.
The sketch looked like me.
Not exactly like me. Not perfectly. But close enough that the back of my neck prickled. Close enough that I felt heat climb inside my chest, rising fast. The artist had drawn the eyes slightly smaller, the mouth a bit thinner, but the overall shape… the posture… the aura…
It wasn't someone else.
It was me—if I'd stood under poor lighting and turned slightly to the side.
Someone gasped near me. "Oh my god… he looks like—"
I stepped away before they could finish. My hands shook so violently I shoved them into my pockets. A bitter laugh slipped out—short, stiff, unnatural. I pretended it was funny, ridiculous, a coincidence. People resembled each other all the time, didn't they? There were strangers all over the world who looked like celebrities, or friends, or relatives.
This was just that. A coincidence. A cruel one, but still a coincidence.
I walked faster. The noise of the crowd faded behind me, but the pounding in my chest didn't. I reached the alley beside the bakery and pressed my back to the cold brick wall. I tried to breathe normally, tried to convince myself I wasn't panicking, but the adrenaline was too strong. My skin felt tight, like it didn't fit right on my body.
The sketch was wrong. It had to be.
Ethan was already arrested. Dragged out in handcuffs. Publicly shamed. His face had been all over the news for days. The police had declared the case closed. Reporters had interviewed his horrified relatives. People in town talked about how they "always knew something was off about him." They'd already convinced themselves he was guilty.
So why release a new suspect sketch? Why now?
Unless they knew Ethan wasn't the killer.
Unless they'd found something.
I dug my nails into my palms and forced myself to calm down. There was no reason to spiral. No reason to assume the worst. The sketch wasn't exact. And people didn't look at me long enough to memorize my face. I was forgettable. Background noise. Invisible.
That was good.
That kept me safe.
I pushed away from the wall, wiped my hands on my jeans, and walked home without looking at anyone. My apartment building stood quiet and plain, the kind of place nobody paid attention to. No one talked outside their doors. No kids ran through the hallways. Just the familiar creaking of the stairs and the dim flicker of a lightbulb that should have been replaced weeks ago.
I shut the door behind me and locked it twice. The air inside felt too heavy, like the walls were holding their breath with me. I paced once, twice, then froze in front of the hallway mirror.
I didn't mean to stop. I didn't want to look. But something dragged my eyes toward it—the knowledge that I had to see what they saw. Had to compare myself to the sketch. Had to study every line of my face and figure out what part of me they'd drawn.
I took a step closer.
My reflection stared back: tired eyes, faint stubble, hair a little messy from the wind outside. The same face I'd seen every day without thinking twice about it.
Now it felt alien.
Accusing.
Familiar in a way I suddenly despised.
I picked up the sketch from my memory, held it beside the mirror in my imagination, and the similarity became undeniable. Not perfect, but close enough for someone to point at me if they wanted to.
If they looked.
If they paid attention.
If they cared.
A pulse of anger surged through me—sharp and sudden. Why would the police draw something like that? Why would they make it look like me? Unless they were trying to pin this on someone new. Someone ordinary. Someone who blended in.
Someone like me.
No. No. I wasn't going to let them do that. I wasn't going to let their mistake—if it even was a mistake—dictate how I saw myself. It was just a coincidence. Innocent. Harmless.
I moved closer to the mirror.
Then I noticed something I'd been ignoring for days: the dark circles under my eyes, the tension in my jaw, the way my hair stuck out unevenly because I kept running my hands through it.
I looked like someone haunted.
And haunted people drew attention.
A sharp breath escaped me. I grabbed the edges of the mirror and stared at my reflection until my vision blurred. Every flaw felt amplified—every line, every shadow, every hint of fear in my expression.
I hated it.
All of it.
I let go of the mirror and stepped back. Then I walked to the kitchen, opened the drawer, and pulled out the heavy metal flashlight I kept there. The weight of it settled into my palm perfectly.
Back in the hallway, I raised the flashlight and swung it.
Glass exploded across the floor. The sound echoed through the apartment like something breaking inside my chest. I didn't stop. I swung again. Again. Again. Until the entire mirror was shattered and the pieces reflected nothing except fragmented shards of myself.
Tiny versions of me. Distorted. Twisted. Almost unrecognizable.
Better that way.
I dropped the flashlight beside the debris and leaned against the wall, breathing hard. My pulse pounded in my ears. Sweat prickled at my temples. The room felt too warm, too small.
But I felt better.
No more reflection. No more comparisons. No more staring at a face that suddenly looked like it belonged in a police lineup.
I swept the glass into a pile, ignoring the small cuts on my hands, and dumped everything into a bag. I tied the bag tight and shoved it into the trash chute. Gone. Out of sight. Out of mind.
But the relief was short-lived.
Because even without the mirror, I still saw the sketch.
Every time I closed my eyes, it hovered there—my nearly-there twin, staring back as if daring me to admit something I wasn't ready to admit. Something I wasn't even fully aware of.
I sat on the couch and pressed my palms to my forehead. "They're wrong," I whispered. "They have to be."
The silence in the apartment swallowed the words.
I turned on the TV for noise. The news was still looping the same interview, the same warnings, the same picture of the suspect. The sketch flashed on the screen again, and I flinched.
I changed the channel. And the next. And the next.
It didn't matter. The image kept returning like a shadow I couldn't escape.
A face in the crowd.
My face.
Or close enough.