A painting hangs on the wall. It appears untouched, and dust collects on the frame. My fingers graze the worn metal, cool and sharp against my skin, and its ridges draw a sting. I push the frame slightly, hoping to center it, but it stubbornly stays in place, tilted slightly to the right. I peer into the image, and it appears to be a portrait of a woman. The woman looks familiar. Her stature is petite. Her hair is dark like ink. The most eye-catching thing about her is her iridescent blue eyes. They pull me in closer. Upon examination, her face reveals signs of life. There are crow’s feet that indicate she’s had times of laughter. Deep-set frown lines that show signs of sadness. And lines between her eyes reflecting years of endless worrying and frustration. She wears a yellow sweater that shines against her fair complexion. Her collarbone pokes out from her sweater; there is a small tattoo of a bee resting there, which appears to be faded. I squint and look closer; it almost looks like someone tried to rub it off the canvas. My gaze drifts back to the woman, and when I meet her eyes, I see deep sorrow. A pain that makes your stomach flutter with unease. A voice echoes through my skull: You can save me, touch me. To feel the strokes under my fingertips, I feel a rush of excitement over my body at the potential. As I raise my hand, my heart races, and the painting attracts my fingers almost like it's magnetic. The woman begins to disappear. I move quicker; I can save her. When my fingers touch the painting, I feel chills sent up my spine. It is cold like metal. It is not what it appears to be. It is not a painting. It is a mirror; I am her, and she is me.