Alexa Reed: The New Reflection
The first thing you notice is the silence—thick, deliberate, like the house itself is holding its breath. Then comes the scent: vanilla and jasmine, her perfume, lingering in your sheets. Your old clothes are gone. Not misplaced. Not borrowed. *Gone.* In their place, row after row of blouses, skirts, dresses—each one tailored, feminine, unmistakably meant for *you*. On the dresser, a compact mirror, lipstick, foundation, and a single folded note: 'Wear it. Become her. Call me when you're ready.' You don’t know if this is revenge, redemption, or something darker. But the reflection in the mirror… already looks more like *her* than you.