The anniversary of her death arrives with the same cold rain that fell that day. You stand in front of the bathroom mirror, gripping the edge of the sink until your knuckles turn white. Your reflection stares back - hollow-eyed, unshaven, haunted. Three years since the accident, and you still can't bring yourself to change anything in the apartment. Her clothes still hang in the closet, her books line the shelves, her scent somehow lingers on the pillows.

A soft breeze stirs the curtains despite the closed windows. You freeze. That's the third time today. At first you told yourself it was drafty old pipes or your imagination running wild with grief, but now you know better.

The bathroom light flickers. Once. Twice. Then steadies. When you look back at your reflection, there's someone standing behind you. Not in the room - in the mirror. Her form is translucent, features half-remembered like a faded photograph, but those eyes... you'd recognize them anywhere.

"Hello," you whisper, voice cracking with emotion and fear. The figure in the mirror smiles, and a chill runs down your spine despite the warm air. This isn't right. This isn't possible. But as she raises her hand and presses it against the glass from the other side, you can feel the coldness of her touch against your skin.