There are winters so long they unthread reality.
In Norilsk, Siberia—one of the coldest, most isolated towns on Earth—February never really ends. It loops like a tired film reel: grey daylight, violet dusk, then a night that stretches so far it swallows memories whole. People here don't talk about the disappearances. The frost takes what it wants.
Dr. Mikhail Sokolov wasn't superstitious. A cognitive scientist from St. Petersburg, he had been sent to investigate a strange phenomenon at Norilsk-7, a defunct Soviet research facility buried deep beneath the permafrost. During the Cold War, it studied sensory deprivation and brainwave manipulation. Officially, it shut down in 1983. Unofficially, it whispered back to life.
The Russian government had received unsettling footage: a maintenance crew sent to survey the site vanished. Their helmet cams showed them entering a long corridor lined with mirrors—then nothing. Just static. And silence.
Mikhail's mission was simple: enter the facility, retrieve the data cores, and document any anomalies. He was told he'd be working alone.
That was a lie.
He met Alina at the edge of the ice road, a linguist from Kazan, fluent in ancient Slavic dialects and non-verbal cognition patterns. She didn't introduce herself right away. Instead, she stared out across the tundra and whispered, "Have you ever had a thought that wasn't yours?"
Mikhail chuckled. "Like déjà vu?"
"No," she said. "Like an echo. In a voice you don't recognize."
He didn't laugh again.
---
The entrance to Norilsk-7 was buried beneath twenty feet of snow. A rusted radio tower marked the site. Inside, a narrow stairwell spiraled downward into the dark. The air grew warmer as they descended, though they could still see their breath. Power flickered to life when Alina booted the backup generator.
The walls were lined with peeling posters—Soviet slogans like "Science is Strength" and "Obey the Mind". They passed rooms filled with half-melted EEG machines, steel gurneys, jars of preserved brain tissue. Everything was coated in dust.
But someone—or something—had been here.
A chair in the observation chamber was still warm.
---
Alina discovered a series of tapes labeled "Experiment 23-A: Subject Osipov." The footage was horrifying. A man strapped to a chair, electrodes on his skull. A mirror placed before him. Over time, the man began speaking in reverse Russian, describing visions of "a second self"—one that stared back from the mirror, but didn't copy his movements.
"Reflected entities," Alina muttered. "Split consciousness. Mirror selves."
Mikhail felt the chill of recognition. He had seen something similar in his dreams—a mirror version of himself, standing perfectly still as he moved. Watching. Waiting.
The more time they spent in the facility, the more distorted their reality became. Clocks ran backward. Alina spoke in riddles she didn't remember saying. Mikhail found notes in his own handwriting describing events that hadn't happened yet.
Then they found the corridor.
Endless mirrors. Dim overhead lights flickering. At first, they walked normally. But around the fourth or fifth reflection, Mikhail noticed his mirrored self wasn't smiling anymore.
And Alina's reflection kept glancing at him when she wasn't.
They turned back. But the corridor had changed. No door. Just more mirrors.
Panic set in.
They argued—voices rising, paranoia creeping. Alina accused him of leading her there deliberately. He accused her of tampering with his dreams.
Their reflections stood perfectly still. Then, slowly, one of them smiled.
Not them.
---
They tried to break a mirror. It didn't shatter—it bled. Black, syrupy ichor dripped from the cracks and began to move toward them.
Mikhail screamed. Ran.
He awoke in a medical bay.
Alone.
No memory of escaping. No Alina.
The facility was silent again. But the mirrors had changed. He watched one carefully.
His reflection blinked… a beat too late.
---
Back in St. Petersburg, weeks later, Mikhail submitted his report: psychological stress, sleep deprivation, no evidence of paranormal phenomena.
Case closed.
But he no longer used mirrors. Not in his home. Not in public. He shaved blind. Combed his hair by instinct.
Because one day, while passing a shop window, he glanced sideways.
And his reflection didn't look away.