The Other Side of the Mirror

He usually rose early in the morning to avoid the crowds in the bathroom. He took a quick shower, put on the clothes he had prepared the previous day, and left the house. He ate breakfast at his desk at work, and lunch was always at the same bar near his work. Dinner, if he ate it, was always accompanied by his wife, who diligently prepared it for him and served it on the table in the living room.

They had a six-year-old boy, a quiet yet introverted child. He was in the last group of kindergarten and would start school next year.

Their life had been smooth for twelve years, since they married. Monotonous activities, routine work, and the vices that characterized a "settling" marriage. She was a plump blonde who worked as a secretary at a law firm. He was an architect at one of the renowned design firms in their city. It must be admitted that they coped admirably. Over the course of twelve years of marriage, they had acquired a decent four-room apartment in a new building and a plot of land with a small house outside the city. They both drove decent, well-worn Japanese cars, which they considered reliable.

Her single, most important goal in life was to raise their son the way her parents had raised her. She had received a good education in principles and responsibilities. Seemingly, they lacked nothing; nothing interfered with their daily lives.

However, for several years now, he hadn't been able to fall asleep without a headache, which came whenever he put his face to the pillow. Difficult and unwanted thoughts always emerged like spiders from under a pile of wood. He wondered if all those studies, the arduous climb up the career ladder through various design firms, and what he had achieved, had been what he had been striving for? What did he really need in life? Hard work, diligence, punctuality, and ambition had always been drilled into him. He had meticulously and systematically acquired these traits. This gave him a solid foundation for fighting for his existence. He and his wife met while still in college. It was one of those student romances – tempestuous and quickly ending in marriage. They decided to have a child after five years of marriage, having built up an apartment during that time.

His way to fall asleep was to take a few sips of water from the bottle always kept by his bed, curl into the fetal position, and burrow his head into the pillow. Sometimes he fell asleep on his wife's stomach, who occasionally scratched his back before falling asleep while watching some boring TV show he didn't want to watch or watched just to pass the time before falling asleep. Thoughts came one after another. Sometimes they took the form of a white angel leaning over him and touching his head in a gesture of blessing or placing both hands on it, which usually soothed the pain. Sometimes, however, the thoughts were of a different nature. They offered him solutions to his tormenting thoughts, sending him on a one-way trip. Usually, it was a place he wasn't sure existed. Lonely islands, or small, sleepy towns where meeting anyone was a miracle. Once, in a movie, he saw such a town, devoid of people, and he longed to move there. Not because his life was bad, but because he was suffering and couldn't understand the reason for his suffering. It seemed to him that the main cause of his pain was the crowds of people who thronged the streets and sidewalks, offices, shops, and train stations every day. Even in the cinema, he felt uncomfortable when surrounded by too many people, who constantly milled about in their seats, chatting as if they had nothing else to do. The crowds exhausted him, so he longed for peace and solitude. His work, which required concentration, stillness, and precision, was a certain escape. He shared an office room with a colleague who was himself a silent man. This didn't bother him, however, and he felt good about it. In his free time, he sometimes went online and read articles about Himalayan expeditions, which had fascinated him since childhood. The problem, however, was the persistent thoughts that gave him headaches before falling asleep, and when provoked during the car ride to work, they caused him lingering sadness. He couldn't shake these thoughts, which swirled in his mind and, unbidden, developed into whole stories.

He couldn't remember whether it was in the sixth or seventh year of their marriage, shortly after their son was born, when he first woke up to a feeling of disarray, of an inconsistency between the previous day and his current state. He recalled events from the previous day that didn't fit into the puzzle of the present. The car's tank was empty in the morning, when he was convinced he'd filled it up the previous afternoon. Another time, opening the closet, he found no ironed shirt, even though he could have sworn his wife had ironed it for him the previous evening while watching TV. There was also an instance when, in his—he was certain—empty wallet, he found a few banknotes in the morning. This confirmed his belief that it was possible to shift worlds during sleep, entering symmetrical reflections of his reality, parallel worlds that, on the surface, didn't differ significantly from those he left behind before falling asleep. Every attempt to tame the phenomenon through various meditations, nocturnal awakenings, and controlled sleep techniques proved fruitless. The mystery lingered. After a while, he even began to wonder if he might have fallen victim to a mental disorder, but quickly ruled that out. He worked normally, ate normally, and, as he believed, his family was in no danger. Speaking with a psychiatrist he knew, he confirmed his diagnosis. This doctor revealed the secrets of his condition, which usually involved exhaustion, oxygen deprivation, and the abuse of alcohol, tobacco, and other substances. He smoked little and believed that alcohol was no major problem. The situations he encountered in the morning, related to the lack of relativity between the present and the past, were rare, however. Often, he was haunted only by thoughts. Over time, he became accustomed to them, like his own bathrobe, which he wore before falling asleep after a bath. In the evening, he would lie in bed and wait for the thoughts. And the thoughts always came.

That evening, he couldn't fall asleep for a long time. He thought about his past, about years gone by, the taste of which would never return, and whose individual images were hidden deep within him. He remembered Ewa, a colleague from the neighboring design office, with whom he had cheated on his wife. They had met at a construction fair in Łódź. They would meet furtively in the park near the office, savoring each other's presence, touch, and scent. However, their relationship didn't last long and dissolved one winter night when, tipsy, he went to her apartment. When she answered the door, he saw a man in a T-shirt in the back of the apartment. He never called again, and she didn't seek contact with him either. Their tempestuous romance naturally fizzled out. At the time, it hadn't even occurred to him to clarify anything with Ewa.

He tossed and turned for a long time as more thoughts came to him. He began to wonder what he had accomplished in his life that was so significant. Was his view of the world and people correct? He had already experienced many different experiences – earlier in childhood, in youth, in marriage. He had seen different things, witnessed various stories. They convinced him that there were no absolute truths, no absolute love, that happiness was an illusion, that the permanence of all matter and immateriality was a fiction manipulated to be replaced by truth. Even his buildings, houses, bridges – their durability was calculated for a finite period. Nothing lasts forever, he pondered. If only he could leave this man in his body, tossing and turning in bed, for a moment, and walk out of this house, wandering seemingly aimlessly. He used to love to wander, but ever since he had become entangled in the whirlwind of family responsibilities, his time had been filled to the point of absurdity. He was left with a few hours alone each week, but it was only a substitute for a fragment of time that he rarely used anyway. "Why would he?" he thought. Even if he went to the park, the Old Town, or the cinema alone, he immediately had to rush home to his duties. Even when he was early, he faced scrutinizing glances from his wife and the usual whining of his son, who demanded his father's attention. "If I had the chance to change my life, where would I start, what part of it would I change?" he wondered. Appearance, personality, place and time of birth? Or perhaps a life partner? No, that's pointless, he thought. Starting all over again, getting to know someone inside and out, getting involved again, explaining, arguing, apologizing. If it weren't for those late-night thoughts and difficulty falling asleep, he'd probably be a normal man.

The next morning, he couldn't get up. His wife and son had left for work early, and he'd simply overslept. He quickly jumped into the shower and, without even making his morning coffee, ran out of the house. He got into his car, parked in a nearby parking lot, and drove like a maniac toward work. At an intersection near work, he ran a red light and plowed straight into a truck moving from the right. He didn't even brake. He slammed his Toyota head-on into the metal body of a dump truck. He felt as if some invisible force had grabbed him and was hurtling through some dark tunnel at breakneck speed toward a small point of light. He only remembers feeling no fear, rather a sense of pleasure. As he approached the point of light, he was overcome by an almost euphoric feeling. He flew into the point of light, which spread throughout the entire space before him, and the image vanished. Darkness fell.

He dreamed of snakes slithering all over his body, but he couldn't touch them because his hands were tied behind his back. He writhed and screamed...

"Relax, you're still in shock from the accident. Can you hear me? You were very lucky," said a tall man in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck. "If your chair hadn't broken, you'd be lying in the morgue right now. You have three broken ribs, a concussion, and general bruising, but you'll pull through," the doctor said.

He didn't speak, just blinking like a sleepy dog. The doctor's words barely reached his ears. He had a strange feeling of swelling. A slight mist covered his eyes.

"Where am I?" he asked

. "At the district hospital in the intensive care unit. You're on a respirator, which we'll disconnect today. You're being given intravenous glucose. I think your hospitalization will take about three or four days," the doctor said.

"Does... your wife know..." he asked.

"Of course, she's been here every day for the past three days you've been with us. You have a beautiful wife," the doctor said, smiling.

"I have a beautiful wife?" he thought. How comforting it was that other men also liked his wife. It might even be pleasant, and... sometimes even more than pleasant. He felt a severe headache and exhaustion. After a moment, he fell asleep.

He woke as evening was falling, and the sky was bleeding on the horizon outside the window...

"Hello, darling," said a voice from his right

. He turned abruptly and was stunned. Beside him, on a hospital stool, sat a captivating blonde. Her fair complexion, interspersed with tiny freckles on her nose and cheeks, her small nose, sensual lips, beautiful oval face, and long, curly blond hair gave the impression of unearthly beauty. She was dressed in wide brown corduroys, short boots, and a light turtleneck sweater, from which hung a delicate gold chain with a small elephant. A burgundy leather jacket lay on her lap, and the whole thing was complemented by the wonderful scent of tangerine mixed with mint leaves and a hint of pepper.

"Who are you?" he whispered,

frozen in silence.

"Don't you recognize me, darling?

" "No," he said confidently

. "I'm your wife. My name is Magda

." He remembered he had a wife. That her name was Magda, but she was definitely not his wife. She could have been 28, 30 at the latest. "She's definitely not my wife," he thought as she stood and leaned over to kiss him. Her lips were soft, barely brushing his in a gentle kiss.

"I'll call the doctor right away," she said, and left the room.

She had come with the tall, brunette man who had informed him about the accident.

"She doesn't recognize me. Is it amnesia?

" "Possibly. She has a concussion." Shock from an accident and concussion often cause these symptoms. They should subside within 2-3 days at most.

"Phew. I wouldn't want my husband not to recognize me, you know?" she said with a smile.

"I understand perfectly," the doctor smiled, his teeth flashing white.

They were left alone. All sorts of thoughts raced through his mind. How is it possible that this woman calls him her husband? What kind of madwoman is she? He was afraid to ask, in case they accidentally gave him some sedative and made him sleepy. He carefully examined the woman sitting next to him. She was really pretty. Who was she, how did she get here... his son reminded him.

"What about Piotrek?" he almost shouted.

"He's at my mom's. Everything's fine. I haven't told him yet. I said you had to go away on urgent business.

" "Yeah..."

He couldn't control his thoughts. Where is he, what happened, where is his Magda, and what is this woman doing here? Or maybe this is some kind of prank by his colleagues? But he doesn't really have any colleagues...

"How are you feeling, honey?" the blonde blinked her long eyelashes.

"I'm fine," he said cautiously. "I wish I were home already."

"I'd also like to take you there as soon as possible. When we get back, I'll make you a proper dinner. These hospital dinners obviously aren't your cup of tea.

" "You look nice," he said. "But I remember a different you, before the accident...

" "The morning of the day you hit that truck, I had an appointment at the hairdresser's. I told you, don't you remember?

" "I don't remember...

" "I'm sure everything will be fine. In three days, you'll be home and you'll remember everything."

He smiled. He had recovered from his initial impression and the shock of this changed reality, though he still thought it was someone else's scenario. He began to think about something else. The thought occurred to him that if this woman was his wife and considered herself one, then... No, that was too absurd. He panicked slightly.

"Excuse me, but I'm tired.

" "My name is Magda, honey...

" "I'm sorry, Mrs. Magda, but I'd like to sleep.

" "Okay, honey, it's late," she said, clearly concerned. "I'll come see you right after work. Maybe I'll even take a moment off and come back earlier."

When she kissed him goodbye, he fell asleep.

He stayed in the hospital for another three days. The blonde woman, who called him her husband, came to visit him every day. On the morning of the fourth day, his "wife" and their son arrived. The little one was thrilled to see his father.

He tried to carefully observe the little one's reactions. It was obvious Piotruś knew the woman, he deduced, so maybe it was true? But what was true? That this woman was his wife? No, that was impossible. He remembered his wife well. After all, Magda's parents must have photos of her; they must remember "that" Magda...

They arrived at the house. He was surprised by the absolute cleanliness and some changes. The curtains and drapes were new, as were some of the furniture in the living room, a few paintings were missing, and the bedroom stunned him. It looked like a Turkish pasha's bedroom, with a sprawling bed, brass bedside lamps at the head, and a large burgundy lampshade hanging above the bed. At the foot of the bed stood a small chest of drawers, and behind it stretched a huge wardrobe with mirrored doors.

"Is something wrong?" the blonde asked him

. "No..." he said, still looking around the bedroom. I don't remember the room being decorated like this.

"You assembled that wardrobe yourself!

" "Me? Impossible. I've never assembled anything myself," he said

. The day passed quickly. Around one in the afternoon, after a hearty lunch, he fell asleep peacefully. He had no headaches. The bandages around his chest were a bit tight, but aside from a few swellings and bruises that were healing slowly, he felt quite well. He woke up a little after four. A moment later, a blonde woman entered the bedroom. She was wearing a cream-colored silk robe and matching light slippers. His hair showed she'd recently showered.

"How did you sleep, honey?

" "Quite peaceful. I think I slept like a baby...

" "You looked like that," she smiled. "There's no place like home," she added, clearly amused. I'm so happy we're all together now.

" "Where's Piotruś?" he asked.

"In his room, watching some TV program

." He fell limply onto the pillow. No, it couldn't be true. A new wife, an apartment with strange changes, a son cuddling with a strange woman as if nothing had happened. What was happening? Or was it? No, he pushed the thought far away. Or maybe that life was over after all... That life, and I didn't survive the accident at all?" he wondered. Or perhaps this was some symmetrical world I'd entered through a "time gate," which happened to be located at that intersection? He asked himself various questions, unable to find the right answers. After a moment, his head ached. The strange woman gently left, thinking she needed a moment's respite.

He tried to read the magazines lying in the basket by his bed. There were several weeklies familiar to him. Imagine his surprise when, upon opening one, he discovered that the situation in the country and the world didn't correspond to the state he remembered from before the accident. So this wasn't fiction... he thought. Something important and probably irreversible had happened. He had experienced an incredible metamorphosis of his self. Perhaps his hidden desires and dreams had materialized, and at the moment when he should have left this world, he was reabsorbed by a world that was a symmetry of his own, with slight differences. He knew from mathematics and physics that perfect representations don't exist. The symmetry of straight lines and objects will always produce various variations, elements alien to the ideal. Just as a straight line tending to infinity curves at infinity, it is no longer straight... Analyzing his situation, he concluded that he simply had to adapt to the current reality and, first, get to know it better.

With a strange thrill of emotion and slight excitement, he awaited the evening. In the meantime, he spent some time with his son, reading Andersen's "The Snow Queen" to him, and after dinner, he spent time in the bathtub, bathing in shallow water so as not to soak the bandages. When the blonde came into the bathroom to help him wash, he instinctively covered his crotch with his hands.

"Oh, no, honey," she said, clearly amused. "Are you ashamed of me?

" "No, that's just a... hospital reflex in front of the nurses," he said, clearly embarrassed, revealing himself completely.

"I know every dot on your body," she said, then took off her robe, revealing the charms men dream of. She wore only delicate, burgundy thong panties. Her beautiful, firm, and generously sized breasts stuck out proudly, and her pink nipples looked like the lips of a baby craving a breast.

"I'll wash your back. They must have neglected you in that hospital," she stated.

"It wasn't that bad. But of course, I prefer your hands," he said uncertainly.

She washed him gently and thoroughly, touching him several times in his sensitive spot, but he could tell by her expression that it didn't bother her at all. She might as well be washing dishes, he thought.

When night had enveloped their apartment in a web of silence and the lights in the neighboring windows had gone out, they went to bed. He turned off his wall lamp, but hers burned softly, casting a faint yellowish light on the satin green sheets. She looked him straight in the eye and gently ran a delicate, manicured hand through her hair. She had beautiful, long, cherry-colored nails. He didn't wonder if they were artificial nails or her real ones. He focused on studying the details of her face. She had fascinating freckles. Some merged into subtle dots, looking like little lambs on the wide juncture of her face and nose. That nose was equally fascinating. As he remembered, that type of nose on women always made him incredibly emotional. Slightly curved downward, small, subtle, just "ah!" He wanted to touch her slightly curly hair, but he was afraid to move his hand, so he just stared into her mahogany eyes. She smiled faintly and whispered,

"My darling." Home now. I'm so glad nothing happened to you. You know, I prayed to God to let you live. I was so afraid you wouldn't wake up... And now you're with me. I don't think I'll let you drive. I'll take you wherever you want, my dearest..." She

kept touching and stroking him. At one point, her hand slid lower, to his stomach and lower still. She felt his manhood and began gently caressing it with her thumb. When she sensed he was ready, she calmly pulled back the satin duvet and leaned toward his waist.

He had never experienced such a story, such a sensation. It was like an earthquake. He didn't know if it was her tongue, her technique, or her wonderful mouth that heightened the effect to a boiling point. As he came, a long-forgotten cry escaped his lips.

She smiled at him when he finished and shamelessly licked her lips.

"The little angel is fed," she said cheerfully .

"It's amazing what happens to a person in tragic moments of life," he muttered

. "I don't know what I would do if you died. Without you, with Piotrek..."

He placed a finger on her lips.

"Don't say anything more. Cuddle up to me."

He placed his hand on her relatively firm stomach. This was always how he fell asleep. He was afraid to fall asleep. After all, this "adventure" could end with sleep. He would wake up and return to "his" world, he mused. He didn't know where he truly wanted to be, "here" or "there." He didn't know when he'd fallen asleep. When he woke, she wasn't in bed. It was empty, but it was the same bedroom he'd fallen asleep in the previous day. He stared at the mirrors in the closet, and memories of the final moments of the accident blossomed in his mind. Yes, just before hitting the truck, in the last split second, he'd glanced in the rearview mirror. He couldn't remember why. He saw the reflection of his own eyes there, and what he remembered was the depth of that image, something he couldn't describe. It was like an ocean of thoughts, swirling, twisted, pulsating. He saw his entire life, all his thoughts assembled at once in a single point, shattering into a thousand pieces, each different, each responsible for a different piece of the puzzle of his life. Furiously, he threw the antique ashtray in his bedroom at the wardrobe mirrors. They flew with a crash. The blonde he'd fallen asleep with the night before, ready to go to work, burst into the bedroom.

"What happened?!

" "My ashtray slipped and flew into the mirror," he said with a goofy smile.

"Honey, what's wrong with you? I'll call the doctor.

" "Nothing, really, nothing. I remembered the moment of the accident. The mirror... I can't have a mirror in the bedroom...

" "I understand, but you should have said it. I would have called a carpenter and had them removed. But since you've already done it yourself... Perhaps you could also try to find some tasteful filling in the gaps?" – she said with a smile .

After fifteen minutes, she finished getting ready for work, stuffed a few trinkets into her purse, kissed him tenderly on the lips, took the sleepy Piotruś by the hand, and left, swaying her hips seductively.

He was left alone. I should do something, he thought.

He dragged himself out of bed with obvious difficulty and dressed. From the hallway drawer, he took his wallet and credit cards, which were thankfully still there. He grabbed his documents and phone, and left the apartment, locking the door securely. Descending the stairs, he hailed a taxi, which arrived moments later. He booked a ride to the city center from the Avis rental company. He rented a black Golf and slowly climbed into the driver's seat. His chest ached, and he felt dizzy. He decided to do what he'd been thinking about for days. He chose the concrete wall of an old, disused stadium outside the city. Fortunately, it was empty. He parked the car a hundred meters from the wall surrounding the stands, turned off the engine, and lit a cigarette from a pack he found in the glove compartment. He pondered. He considered whether it was worth the risk. He was alive, he had a wife, a stranger, whom he didn't remember from before the accident, but he also had a son. Besides, the situation didn't seem hopeless. He would recover and live a normal life. But was that normal? To remember a different life before the accident and be stuck in a scenario altered by someone or something? He wondered if his internal memory system, his complex nervous system, had somehow malfunctioned. Probably not, because everything else made sense. He didn't feel sick. So if... if he had the gift of transcending worlds, maybe in his next incarnation he'd return to his previous "system." He threw the cigarette butt out the window and started the engine. He put the car in gear and drove, tires screeching, toward the wall. He managed to shift into second gear, still glancing in the mirror. In that second, all he felt was an incredible force lifting him at incredible speed through a bright space, and after a moment of bliss, darkness followed

. He opened his eyes. Slowly, the realization dawned on him. His head and torso were bandaged. He lay alone in a room containing, besides his bed, a dresser and a chair. The curtains were drawn. What struck him about the room was its old-fashioned decor. The bed and furnishings resembled those of a previous era.

A nurse in a large white cap and apron entered the room. She carried a glass syringe on a tray.

"Excuse me, where am I?" he muttered.

"In the railway hospital on Brzeska Street

." "What year is it...

" "I don't understand?" the nurse said, clearly terrified .

"What year is it now

?" "But it's nineteen thirty-four, November 15th," the nurse said, clearly terrified. "You've been unconscious for six days. The doctors thought you wouldn't wake up... I'll call the doctor on duty.

" "No need. I want to rest."

The nurse adjusted the bed and a moment later left, closing the door behind him. He lay alone in the room. So was it true that time travel was possible? All this science fiction, all this fantasy – all of it was nothing compared to his experiences, to the reality he had to face. He had overcome the barrier of life and death, overcome the barrier of time and space. He asked himself one question: what was the world like beyond this room? This was probably the greatest experience of his life, to confront the past, to see it, to experience it firsthand, to feel it with his whole being… And of course, he thought of his wife. Would he finally find "his" Magda, or meet a beautiful blonde? Or perhaps someone completely new. He fell asleep.

When he woke, dusk was slowly falling outside the window. He could see the branches of a spreading tree being blown by the wind. The wind whistled in the window frames. It had become gloomy. If it weren't for the small lamp on the table, providing a sliver of pale yellow light, the room would have been unpleasantly dark. The first drops of rain hit the windows and windowsill. He buried his bandaged face deep in the pillow and fell into thought.

At that moment, a man in a white coat entered the room. He might have been sixty, maybe older. His hair was a dove-gray gray, and he had a small beard of the same color. He wore tiny, round glasses and held a paper folder in his hand.

"Hello, sir. My name is Dąbrowski. I am the head of this clinic. You were brought in in a serious general condition. You are now somewhat better. Your pulse has calmed down, and you have no fever.

" "Doctor, has anyone in your family asked about me? Your wife?

" The doctor glanced at the folder and flipped through some yellow pages.

"From what we have—that is, from the documents you had with you—it appears you are unmarried. We sent a messenger to your address in Mokotów. Your mother visited the hospital twice. Would you like to inform her of your intention to see her?"

"Er, no..." he couldn't shake the impression the doctor's information had made on him.

"Doctor, when will I be able to leave the hospital?

" "Not anytime soon, my dear..." the doctor said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. In three, maybe even four weeks at the earliest.

The doctor left the room and was left alone again. So this time reality had changed its course dramatically. He was transported back in time. Does he live with his mother? No wife. I wonder if he has a job... Who is here...

After a modest hospital dinner, he fell asleep again.

He woke up with the sun already high and the day promising to be bright after the previous night's downpour. An elderly woman dressed in black sat next to the bed, staring intently at him. He greeted her, guessing she was "his mother." From her, he learned what his world was like. He lived with her in a tenement building in Mokotów and worked at a cable factory in Wola as a junior engineer. He also learned that he had recently met a young woman, a bank clerk and, as his mother put it, "a charming, kind lady."

After his mother's visit, he felt uneasy. He realized his mistake. Wanting to play with the nature of time, he became entangled in a web of parallel worlds, ending up in the past. Perhaps he had chosen the wrong impact speed or location. It didn't matter now. He knew he wouldn't be able to use his "skills" and acquired knowledge again. This had to stop. Unable to control this phenomenon, he might end up in prehistoric times or the future, and he didn't want that. All in all, he thought, the reality of pre-war Warsaw deserves attention. In five years, the war would break out, in ten, the Uprising. No, he wouldn't attempt to change history, though with his knowledge, he could. We have to use this time, he mused.

His hospital stay extended to five weeks. He was released just before Christmas. Snow had already blanketed the streets of Warsaw. He looked around with curiosity. He gazed at the faces of men and women wrapped in scarves and shawls, hurrying along the sidewalks. He watched with fondness the cab drivers, who tried to warm themselves by slapping their arms while waiting for customers. He took a cab and asked for a ride to the Hotel Europejski. He knew it was a pre-war hotel, once famous for its excellent cuisine. The cab driver put a thick blanket over his knees, cracked his whip, and off they went. He felt good and warm. Along the way, they passed numerous shops and restaurants. He eyed the odd and sparse cars on the streets with interest. He decided to explore the city a bit before heading home to his mother in Mokotów. It all felt like a strange dream, a dream in which his dreams were coming true one after another. Dreams of a beautiful woman, of old Warsaw… Do we, in our dreams, at the moment of death, find ourselves transported to a world chosen by our minds? Or perhaps it was just a pure illusion of our nervous system, which, by a strange twist of fate, had decided to grant him a trip to the "afterlife"…

He paid the cabbie with coins found in the wallet his "mother" had provided and entered the hotel lobby. The sign on the right indicated a restaurant. He ordered a two-course dinner and a quart of vodka from a Warsaw distillery. After the first glass, he realized that his grandmother, from his real-life birthplace, had been right when she said that vodka tasted different before the war. Chilled, with a delicate aroma of grain, and slightly sweet, reminiscent of moonshine. He ordered schnitzel with potatoes, a salad, and mushroom soup. A straight-backed waiter with the appearance of a sad devil brought everything to him. After finishing his dinner and downing the last glass from the bottle, he felt a blissful warmth spreading throughout his body. He decided to order some coffee before heading home when an old Gypsy woman with a piercing gaze approached his table.

"Mr. Sir, let the Gypsy tell your fortune. You won't regret it." The Gypsy will tell you the truth…

Amused, he extended his left hand. I wonder what the Gypsy will see. Will she recognize that she's not "from here"?

The Gypsy stared at his fingerprints as if in hibernation. After a long moment, she said,

"Your hands are strange, sir, strange… The world in which you live is strange. It looks as if you weren't here." The Gypsy looked into his eyes – you should avoid mirrors. You mustn't stare at mirrors for too long…

"Why?" he said, surprised

. "Don't ask… Pay the Gypsy for her fortune and don't ask. What the Gypsy sees has no day or hour, no life or death within her, no body. These are strange thoughts, strange thoughts…

The Gypsy, having received a złoty for the fortune, hurried away. He was left alone, his heart strangely heavy. Why shouldn't he look in the mirror? What did that mean?"

He felt tired and decided to return to his tenement house on Rakowiecka Street. He hailed a carriage, which took him right to the house. At the gate, he was greeted by a caretaker with a bushy mustache, clearing snow from the yard.

"Hello, Mr. Sylwester! How are you? After that accident, we were all worried about the esteemed gentleman...

" "Thank you, fine," he said, searching for the caretaker's name, but couldn't find it. I'm going upstairs to my mother's. It's cold today...

" "And so, Mr. Sylwester. The Polish Courier wrote that New Year's Eve will be so cold that the windows might shatter. You'll have a lovely name day, my dear sir. It would be good to light the stove and have a glass," the caretaker said with a smile. "Your mother ordered about two tons back in November...

" "Thank you, I'm sure," he cast a favorable glance at the caretaker's bulky figure and climbed the stairs leading to his apartment.

He greeted his "mother" with a kiss on the hand. He hastily explained that he had eaten dinner in town and wasn't hungry. He just wanted to take a bath and go to bed. Their apartment had two large rooms. One was occupied by his mother, the other by himself. He screamed as he crossed the threshold into his chamber. Several stunning landscapes of the Old Town hung on the walls. In the corner of the room, right by the balcony door, stood a large, tall clock with an enormous pendulum that moved majestically in an oak case. By the window stood a dark desk with a brass lamp, a marble inkwell, and a picture of a young woman on it. By the door stood a large three-piece wardrobe, and behind it a metal bed. On the opposite side stood two large leather armchairs, and between them was a small round table, beneath which was a shelf lavishly stocked with various beverages. In the corner, just inside the room's entrance, stood a tiled stove, radiating intense heat. A thick Persian rug in shades of burgundy and green lay on the floor, and a large brass chandelier shaped like a chocolate box hung from the ceiling to complete the picture. So this is how wealthy people once lived, he thought. Beautiful, Gdańsk furniture—he touched the wardrobe and desk with obvious delight. He undressed and put on pajama bottoms from the bed and a burgundy smoking jacket he'd found in the closet. He sat down in an armchair, took a cigarette from a pack lying on the table, and lit it with a lighter the size of a large sugar bowl. He inhaled deeply and looked at "his" room. There was a knock, and a moment later, "mother" entered.

"I've drawn a bath for you, sonny. The water is still hot, but it will be ready in five minutes," the kind woman said.

"Thank you, mother," he said, clearly pleased.

After smoking a cigarette, he poured himself a glass of cognac from under the table and headed for the bathroom. He opened the door, revealing a duck-legged bathtub and an old faucet with angular nickel-plated knobs. A large gas stove also hung above the bathtub. Next to the bathtub stood a large sink with a marble column, and above it a large mirror. White bath towels dangled from large brass hooks. The bathroom was tiled with white ceramic tiles and terracotta tiles in a checkerboard pattern. Everything was clean and smelled of lavender. He removed his smoking jacket and hung it on a hook. He undressed and immersed himself in the still-hot water. After a moment, he adjusted to the temperature and stretched his legs. The bathtub was long and deep. He looked for a moment at the walls and ceiling, then rested his gaze on the mirror. He couldn't see his face in it. The mirror hung high, and he'd have to stand in front of the sink to see his reflection. He remembered the gypsy's words. Not looking in the mirror? How would he brush his teeth, shave? After all, he wouldn't be going to the barber to shave his beard every day. He needed to examine himself from time to time, smooth his hair, pluck a stray eyebrow, or simply observe how much he was aging. For a moment, he pondered the events of the past few days and weeks. The onslaught of events was hard to grasp. After half an hour of lounging in the cast-iron bathtub, he washed his entire body, washed his hair, and emerged, drying himself with a towel. He walked to the sink and looked in the mirror. He saw the unfamiliar face of a man. He looked into his eyes, and at that moment, a blinding flash occurred.

He felt someone tug on his arm. When he opened his eyes, he saw a plump blonde staring into his eyes with obvious impatience.

"Get up, you'll be late for work." You were screaming in your sleep. You shouldn't drink so much wine before falling asleep, I've told you so many times…

"Where am I?" he asked.

"No, this is too much. I'm leaving. Breakfast is in the fridge, tea is in a mug – just pour boiling water over it. Remember, we have a meeting at the bank today at eleven about the house loan.

" "What time is it?

" "Eight-fifteen." Oh, and the mirror in the bathroom is cracked. We'll have to take it to the glazier. I don't know how it happened, it must have cracked in the night," the blonde said, and left.

He got out of bed and stood on his feet. His arms ached, his head ached, he felt miserable. He felt dazed. He heard a child's voice and a woman's urging, and a moment later, the door slammed. So it was all a dream… No, that's impossible, he thought, burying his face in his hands.

He entered the hall and looked around the apartment. It was familiar, the apartment he knew perfectly well. In the hall, above the dresser, hung a mirror. He looked into them and saw the smile of a man who had seen the other side of the mirror of time.