You come to a door. It is an ornate thing, heavy and dark, in every way marked as a thing of importance. You put your ear to it, and you can just make out a faint music inside, a lilting melody that almost seems to beckon you onward.
Do you open the door?
You step inside, and find chaos. The room is so busily ornate that your eyes struggle to rest on a single object. The walls are painted a rich, dark green. The rug on the floor is thick and plush. And pushed against every wall, in every nook and cranny and shelf and cabinet, are wonders. They invite you to curiosity, and to laughter, and to dancing.
Where will you begin your exploration?
When you get closer, you see that each shelf is labelled. There doesn't appear to be a coherent organization system, just dates and names and random strings of letters.
Which shelf do you investigate first?
The notebooks seem to be organized into two categories: Spiral notebooks on the lower shelves and bound journals on the lower shelves. Packed between them, piled in every empty space, are loose papers in various stages of crumpling.
Which do you pick up?
The bookshelf is packed, spines crammed together to fit. Paperbacks, hardcovers, every shape and size. There are overflow books stacked atop the bookshelf and piled up on the floor. You recognize a few of the titles, but others are unfamiliar. They're handbound, possibly the only copies ever made.
Which book do you pull out?
As you get closer, you see that the chest is intricately carved with dozens (hundreds?) of eyes, all of which seem fixed on you. You try to open it, but it is fastened shut with an inset combination lock. You heave the thing away from the wall, looking for some clue, and find the following inscription at the back, beneath one of the hinges:
10 - 15 - 14 - 1 - 8
Wait... this can't be right.
It is a mirror. You can see your reflection. It moves as you move. You lift your hand, it lifts it hand. You tilt your head, it tilts its head. It shares your hair color, your eye color, your face shape. You've seen your reflection before. Of course you have. You know what you look like.
It doesn't look like you.
You reach out, and it reaches out. Your fingers brush the surface, and the mirror ripples and bends, distorting the reflection-that-is-not-your-reflection. It is not a mirror at all, but a flowing, permeable curtain. A path to some other place.
Do you want to go through?