Daily Magic - Short Story 3. Digital Reflections

1. Emerald green

I slide my finger across the screen during breakfast, that morning ritual that has become part of my nervous system. Two hundred new followers since yesterday. Three new brands wanting collaboration. Numbers, numbers, numbers dancing before my eyes while my coffee grows cold in the artisanal ceramic cup (which, by the way, went viral on Stories last week).

I stop dead in my tracks. Something doesn't add up.

I zoom in on my latest post and narrow my eyes. The filter is not the one I used. I'm sure. This one has a golden, almost magical tone that makes my skin look perfect, but... it's not mine. I always apply the softened Valencia filter. This looks... better. As if someone had improved my edit.

"What the hell...?"

I zoom in even further on the image and I see it. The necklace. My simple silver pendant, the one my grandmother gave me, has... mutated. Now it's an elaborate piece with a blue stone I've never had. It shines as if it were real, capturing the light exactly as an authentic sapphire would.

Impossible.

My pulse quickens as I frantically open my editing app. I review the change history, the layers, everything. Nothing. According to this, I uploaded the photo just like this.

But... I didn't.

I touch my neck instinctively, as if expecting to find that phantom jewel materializing on my skin. I only find my silver necklace, as simple and real as always.

My fingers tremble slightly as I swipe between the original photo in my camera roll and the published one. They are different. Indisputably different.

The buzz of notifications interrupts my spiral of confusion. Three messages from Tomás about this afternoon's session. A reminder of the meeting with the agency. Normal life demanding my attention.

I lock the phone and leave it on the table, as if it could bite. Just a glitch. Some system error. Maybe Instagram is testing automatic filters.

I pick up my cup, take a sip of cold coffee and shudder. I get up to prepare a new one, trying to shake off this unsettling feeling that has settled under my skin.

I have to try the new San Sebastián Colombian coffee, which is taking over the trendy café in my neighborhood. Several Stories will definitely come from there.

But while the coffee maker bubbles, my gaze returns again and again to the phone. That necklace I never had shines in my memory like a silent warning.

Three days later, I'm standing in front of my closet, sliding hangers with my index finger, searching for the perfect combination for today's session. Always the same meticulous ritual: selecting pieces that photograph well, that match my feed, that tell the right story.

My hand stops abruptly, suspended in mid-air. My heart gives such a violent leap that I can almost feel it hitting against my ribs.

Among my collection of clothes ordered by shades, hangs a dress I've never bought. Never.

It's impossible not to recognize it: that intense emerald tone with golden applications that shine under the dressing room light. The same dress that mysteriously appeared in one of my altered photos just a few days ago. The same one that sparked a wave of comments asking where I had gotten it.

But I never responded because I never had it.

Until now.

With trembling fingers, almost expecting it to vanish at the touch, I touch the fabric. It's solid. Real. It has weight, texture, it falls with the elegance of a haute couture piece. The cold silk slides between my fingers like water.

I check the interior tag and my stomach does another somersault. Valentino. Limited edition. A piece that can only be obtained by special order, with months-long waiting lists.

A piece I never ordered.

My legs falter. I let myself fall sitting on the edge of the bed, unable to look away from the dress, while my mind desperately tries to find a rational explanation.

An elaborate prank? Some surprise gift from a brand I forgot? A mistaken delivery?

But I know it's none of that. This dress came out of an edited photograph. A photograph I did not edit.

The ringtone of my phone breaks the sepulchral silence that has fallen over the room. The screen lights up with my agent's name. Claudia. "That green dress looked DIVINE on you yesterday! The photos are circulating like crazy."

My breath catches. Yesterday? I didn't wear any green dress yesterday. I didn't leave the house all day.

I arrive at the glass and steel building where Claudia has her office. In the elevator, the mirrors return an image I barely recognize: dark circles poorly concealed under layers of concealer, hair pulled back in an improvised bun I did in the taxi. I don't recognize myself. Or maybe it's that I no longer know who I am.

The doors open on the twelfth floor and I walk like an automaton down the hallway to the meeting room. Claudia is already there, smiling, in her impeccable suit and that overflowing energy that normally infects me. Today it only produces vertigo.

"Here's our star!" she exclaims when she sees me, rising to kiss me on both cheeks.

I sit and leave my bag on the floor while she unfolds a folder full of documents.

"Well, let's get to the point. Congratulations on the contract with Luxe Beauty! Their creative director was enchanted with you at the party."

The words fall like stones. A sudden cold runs down my back.

"What party?" I ask in a thin voice.

Claudia looks at me strangely, then lets out a laugh.

"What do you mean, what party? The one on Wednesday at the Ritz, honey. You were wearing that green Valentino that has revolutionized social media. Don't tell me you drank so much that you don't remember."

I try to maintain my composure as she slides a contract towards me. My signature is there, on the last page. A perfectly imitated signature down to the small final scribble I always do. My fingers brush the paper, expecting it to vanish like a hallucination.

But it's real. As real as the dress in my closet.

"Two hundred thousand for six months of exclusivity," she continues. "Exactly what we asked for. They didn't even try to negotiate downward."

My phone vibrates on the table. Notifications cascading. Congratulations for the contract. Brands interested in collaborations. Everyone seems to know something about my life that I do not.

I leave the building with the signed contract in my bag, stunned, navigating among pedestrians like a ghost. The city lights begin to turn on as the sun sets, blurring the boundaries between day and night, between the real and the unreal.

My phone rings again: it's Tomás, my only anchor in this world that seems to be crumbling.

The bar where I meet Tomás is dark enough to hide my distraught expression. He listens to me attentively while I explain the situation with a broken voice. The dress, the altered photos, the contract. When I finish, I expect to see disbelief, but instead I find a worried look behind the thick vintage glasses he always wears.

"So," he says finally, leaning over the table, "according to you, your Instagram has come to life, materialized into a haute couture dress, and is now going out partying without you. Well, we're definitely screwed."

I let out a frustrated snort.

"This isn't funny, Tomás."

"On the contrary," he responds, raising his glass, "it's hilarious. Your problem is that you've been too successful in creating a perfect image. So perfect that it has decided to become independent and find its own way. It's the wet dream of capitalism: a product that advertises itself."

I can't help but laugh, though the sound is more like a sob. I show him the dress in a photo.

"Have you considered that maybe you bought it during one of those compulsive shopping moments and simply forgot?" Tomás suggests, always rational. "Last year you ordered three identical lamps and don't even remember."

"Tomás, I appear at events I haven't attended."

He takes a sip of his beer, thoughtful.

"Okay, that's harder to explain with compulsive shopping," he finally concedes. "Unless you also hired a double and forgot about it. Have you checked your bank statements?"

The next day, I arrive at Barista Blues, my favorite neighborhood café. The aroma of freshly ground coffee envelops me like a familiar embrace, one of the few comforts left in this world that seems to be crumbling around me. I need to cling to my routines, to the predictable, to what I can control.

Sara, the usual barista, smiles at me from behind the counter.

"Good morning, Luna. What'll it be today?"

I nod, grateful for this small constant.

"Flat white with oat milk, please."

Sara begins to prepare my order, but while manipulating the espresso machine, she throws me a complicit look over her shoulder.

"Today you're not feeling as adventurous as yesterday, to try something different."

I remain motionless, with my credit card suspended in the air. A chill runs down my spine.

"Sorry, yesterday?"

"Yes, you came in the afternoon. With a beautiful green dress," Sara talks while preparing the coffee, unaware of my growing panic. "I loved what you said about abandoning routines and daring to try new things. That's why I'm surprised you're back to the flat white today."

My heart beats so hard I can almost feel it in my throat. I try to make my voice sound casual, carefree.

"And what did I order yesterday?"

"A double espresso with a pinch of cinnamon. I'd never seen you order something like that."

The coffee machine whistles while Sara finishes my order. I take advantage of those seconds to frantically pull out my phone and open Instagram. My fingers tremble so much I almost drop the phone.

And there it is. A story posted yesterday from this very café. A cinnamon espresso, photographed from an angle I would never use, with a filter too saturated that I would never apply. Below, a phrase written in a style that is not mine: "Time to break the routines that chain us. #LiveWithoutLimits".

Twelve hundred views. Three hundred likes. Dozens of enthusiastic responses.

I have no memory of being here. Of writing that. Of taking that photo.

Sara places my flat white on the counter.

"Here you go. Are you okay? You've gone pale."

I pay quickly, mumble a "thanks" and leave the café without tasting the coffee. The hot cup burns my fingers, but I barely notice. In the reflection of the storefronts, I seem to see my shadow move a millisecond late, as if there's a misalignment between me and my projected image.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. A message: "If you want answers, find the super-secret hacker". Sent from my own number.

2. The Supersecret Hacker

The taxi leaves me in front of a gray building, so anonymous it seems to want to disappear among the neighborhood shadows. A pink neon blinks intermittently: "CatoFit - Beautynot Beasty 24H". Nothing like the boutique gyms I frequent for my workout Stories. This place belongs to another Madrid, one I barely show in my perfectly planned feed.

I check the address in the encrypted message I received after days of discreet inquiries, favors called in, and promises made to people who know people. "Basement of the gym. Side stairs. Look for the unnumbered door."

I take a deep breath, adjust my bag on my shoulder, and descend the stained cement stairs. The underground corridor smells of dampness and that cheap air freshener that tries to hide worse odors. The fluorescent light blinks as if dying, projecting shadows that seem to move of their own volition.

This is crazy. What am I doing here? I should be at the natural cosmetics presentation, smiling for the cameras, not in this basement looking for a hacker who may not even exist.

But the image of the emerald dress, materialized out of nowhere, returns my determination. Messages sent from my own number. Photos in places where I've never been.

Metal doors, aligned in pairs, whose paint hasn't been touched in years, just like the walls.

The cracks in the walls are moving. I think my problem is getting worse. Until... I can't believe it! May Saint Valentino protect me! They're little cockroaches moving along the walls like a highway!

I walk slowly, trying not to breathe deeply, to inhale as little as possible of these odors. Also to avoid tripping and not brushing against these walls that could ruin my outfit and transmit any virus just by getting too close. I simply try not to vomit.

I hear a murmur of voices nearby, the tinkling of cups, and the unmistakable aroma of freshly brewed coffee filtering through the cracks of one of these doors.

I approach, very cautiously, the door that attracts me with its aroma. I allow myself an honest thought: I prefer the smell of this coffee to the double espresso with infused cinnamon I left behind a while ago.

I stop in front of the metallic door with no identification. It only has a small symbol engraved, something like a distorted QR code. My fingers trace the engraving, feeling its rough edges.

I raise my hand and knock on the door with trembling knuckles. The metallic sound reverberates softly through the empty corridor, amplifying as it returns to my ears until it seems almost threatening.

I wait. Seconds that stretch like minutes. Nothing.

I knock again, this time forcefully. The echo gradually fades, leaving behind a thick silence.

When I'm about to give up, I perceive movement. And a murmur of worried voices, as if they feel threatened by my mere presence.

I gently push the door that someone has barely opened. A discreet sign indicates "Support Group S.A. - 7:00 PM". For a moment I hesitate, but curiosity pushes me forward.

The scene I find inside is completely surreal: about eight people sitting in a circle, with coffee cups in their hands, in what seems to be a therapeutic meeting. As soon as I enter, all faces turn towards me simultaneously, like in a perfectly rehearsed choreography.

"Welcome," says a man around fifty with a warm smile, the one who opened the door. "You're just in time for the round of introductions."

"I... I'm sorry, I think I got the wrong door," I stammer, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. "I'm looking for the... um... —I hesitate, suddenly aware of how absurd it will sound— the..."

"The super-secret hacker," they all shout in chorus.

"In the door next door," the man who opened the door says softly.

At that moment, I notice he's wearing a hood. But he's not one of those teenagers following ridiculous ludicrous fashions. And there's no indication it might rain under this roof. Maybe there are leaking pipes; I wouldn't be surprised either.

Now that I'm not so rushed or nervous, I look into his eyes. They're deep, golden, intense, piercing me as if analyzing me the same way I'm analyzing him. I suppose he's a he by his deep, ultra-bass voice, but of his face, I only distinguish his eyes. The rest of his face is just hair.

I look at the others sitting in the circle: they all have hoods, golden eyes, and lots of hair.

Except for one sitting in the back, who looks at me frightened. This one isn't wearing a hood, but a ridiculous wig and fake spy glasses. And his eyes are weird: they're twisted, vertical. Although his skin... I'm about to approach and ask him what cream he uses to have such perfect skin.

"When you leave, on your right, the door next door," the one who opened the door pulls me out of my stupor, inviting me to continue my path. I follow his advice.

When I leave the corridor, I breathe deeply, grateful for the stale air. These people were strange. I prefer to return to my life with social media out of my control. It's then that I see him: a thin man in a hoodie — the gym upstairs must have some offer — casually leaning against the door I originally sought. His face remains partially hidden under the hood, but I can distinguish a twisted smile that observes me with an amused curiosity.

"I'm impressed," says the stranger, without taking his eyes off his phone. "Most people run away after meeting the Shifters."

I startle.

"The what?" I say.

"You should read more, girl," he responds, disappointed, and turns to leave.

"Wait. Who are you?" I say, stopping him with my arm.

"Some call me the 'super-secret hacker' — a ridiculous nickname, but effective. My name is Damián."

I follow him to his small office, a chaotic space full of monitors, cables, and empty coffee cups. The place smells of overheated electronics and the kind of instant coffee I would never dare to show in my Stories. I sit in the only available chair not covered in papers while I tell him everything: the dress, the altered photos, the café, the signed contract. Each word I pronounce sounds more absurd than the previous one, but Damián simply nods, without showing surprise.

"You're not the first," he says finally, turning one of the monitors towards me. "Look."

The screen shows news about influencers who mysteriously disappeared or radically changed their personality overnight. Apparently unconnected cases until Damián points out patterns: they all experienced anomalies in their networks before their final transformation.

"What you're facing is not an external hacker or a technical failure," he explains. "It's a digital manifestation of your own repressed desires."

"What?"

My voice sounds high-pitched, incredulous. My fingers grip the edge of the chair until my knuckles turn white.

"Your alter ego is not a separate entity suplanting you. It's a part of you that you've denied so long that it has found another way to express itself. The line between digital and real is more permeable than people believe, especially for people like you, who exist both online and offline."

I feel the floor wobble beneath my feet. The fluorescent lights blink over us, projecting shadows that seem to move with a life of their own.

"That doesn't make sense. I can't be fragmenting without knowing it."

Damián looks at me with a mix of compassion and scientific curiosity.

"Are you sure you're the original?"

The morning following my encounter with Damián begins with a message from him: access coordinates to a monitoring panel he created for me. "So you can see the pattern for yourself," he says.

I open the link and find a perfectly organized timeline of my alter ego's activities. Screenshots, locations, interactions, all documented with forensic precision.

During the next three days, I barely sleep. My apartment becomes an improvised research center. Damián stops by every afternoon, bringing coffee and increasingly elaborate theories. On the wall of my living room, now covered with post-its and photographs, we build the profile of this other Luna.

"Look at this," Damián points, showing me some screenshots. "Yesterday your alter ego sent an email to Roberto Vázquez."

The name instantly provokes a chill. Roberto, my former boss at the advertising agency where I worked before becoming an influencer. The same one who subtly harassed me, who stole my ideas, who made me feel insignificant.

"What did he say?" I ask, with a dry mouth.

"Basically, that he's a fraud and that he has proof of how he stole your concepts for the Telson campaign. He gave him 24 hours to publicly admit it or he would send the evidence to the board of directors."

I'm breathless. For years I've fantasized about confronting him, about seeking justice... but I never had the courage.

And then there are the donations. Five thousand euros to an animal shelter. Three thousand to a childhood cancer foundation. Causes that have always mattered to me, but that I kept postponing for "when I had more stability".

The most fascinating part comes on the fourth day. Damián arrives with an indecipherable expression.

"I think you should see this," he says, showing me an email.

It's a response from Altafilms, an independent production company respected throughout the sector. They confirm financing for "Reflections", a documentary project about authenticity in the digital era.

My heart stops for an instant. "Reflections" was my dream, my personal project that I never dared to present. It's based on notes that only exist in my private digital diary.

"Do you see the pattern?" Damián asks while we analyze the data. "She's not acting against you. She's doing what you don't allow yourself to do."

I contemplate the evidence, divided between fear and a strange admiration.

"I've always presented myself as authentic and close," I murmur. "My personal brand is based on authenticity."

"Perhaps true authenticity is what you do when no one is watching," Damián responds. "Or what you would do if you weren't afraid."

That night, I return to my apartment with my mind saturated. The emerald green dress hangs in my closet, shining under the dim light of my bedroom. On impulse, I take it down and try it on.

It fits me perfectly, as if it had been designed specifically for me. The fabric embraces my body exactly where it should, enhancing curves that I usually disguise in my usual outfits

In front of the mirror, I can't help but wonder if my "other self" is truly a threat or a liberation. The reflection returns a look that seems to contain answers I'm not yet prepared to hear.

3. The other Luna

When Damián places the helmet on my head, I feel a tingling running down my neck. It's not unpleasant, but it definitely produces an unsettling sensation. It's like someone is redrawing my nerve endings.

"Breathe deeply," he instructs me, adjusting electrodes on my temples. "Your mind will try to reject the experience. It's normal."

I close my eyes while the hum of the equipment surrounds me. An ozono and stale coffee aroma floats in the air of his underground office.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Damián asks me one last time.

I nod without opening my eyes. I don't trust my voice to respond.

When I open them again, I'm in my apartment. Or something like it. The contours of the furniture blur like watercolors under the rain. My steps cause ripples on the floor, as if I were walking on invisible water. The light has an oneiric quality, neither day nor night, like that blue hour I love photographing.

And then I see her.

She's sitting on my sofa — our sofa —, with her legs elegantly crossed. She's wearing the emerald dress. Her posture reflects a confidence I recognize from my best photoshoots, but without the effort that it costs me to maintain it.

She's not an exact copy. It's as if someone had taken my image and increased the contrast, saturation, sharpness. I am the draft; she is the published version.

"Finally we meet face to face," she says with my voice, but without my insecurities.

I approach slowly, observing how her silhouette seems more defined than everything surrounding her, including myself.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask, hating the tremor in my voice.

"Doing what exactly?" she responds, tilting her head. "Existing? Expressing myself? Doing what you only dare to imagine?"

"Supplanting my identity," I counter.

She smiles, and it's disturbing to see my own smile from the outside, especially when I've never felt it so genuine on my own lips.

"I'm not taking control," she responds. "I'm completing what you left unfinished. Living what you only dared to imagine."

"And what will happen with...?" I make a gesture encompassing us both, unable to fully formulate the question that terrifies me.

"That depends on you. On us. We can continue fragmented, one existing when the other sleeps, or..."

"Or?" my voice sounds small, almost childlike.

"Or we can reintegrate. But you would have to accept parts of yourself that you've been denying. And I would have to accept limitations that I've been ignoring."

Her words resonate in me like a truth I've always known but never dared to face. I observe her eyes — my eyes — and see in them the longing for freedom that I've always repressed, the courage I've pretended to have in my posts but never truly felt.

"How do I know you won't erase me?" I ask, voicing my greatest fear. "That I won't end up being just a memory in your mind?"

She smiles with a sadness that is painfully familiar to me.

"I can't erase you because I am you. Your fears are my limitations. Your prudence is my brake. We need each other mutually."

I extend my trembling hand towards her, noticing how the apartment around us begins to undulate. The walls bend as if made of rubber, colors intensify and then fade. The floor beneath my feet seems liquid.

"The system is unstable," I murmur, remembering Damián's warnings.

My other self nods, bringing her hand closer to mine. Our fingers are millimeters apart. I can feel a heat emanating from her, an energy vibrating in sync with something inside me.

"Are you ready?" she asks me.

The digital and real worlds seem to momentarily merge around us. The boundaries between what is virtual and what is tangible blur until they become indistinguishable.

"How can I know who is the original?" I ask, my fingers millimeters from touching hers.

She smiles with sadness.

"That is the true question, isn't it? What if I told you that neither of us is? That we are fragments of something that broke a long time ago?"

I freeze at her words. Not the original? The digital space blinks around us like a bulb about to burn out.

"A collapse?" I whisper, and something stirs in my memory. "There was a period... after the launch of that cosmetics campaign..."

"Three days without sleeping," my other self completes. "Five hundred thousand views in twenty-four hours. Negative comments that wouldn't stop coming. Tomás finding you...

"...on the bathroom floor," I finish, and the memory hits me forcefully. "My God. They took me to the hospital."

"And when you came back, something had changed. But no one noticed because you kept functioning. You kept posting. You kept smiling."

A chill runs down my spine. I remember waking up at home after the hospital, with the feeling that something fundamental had changed, but unable to identify what. The weeks afterward are blurry in my memory, but my networks never stopped.

"We fragmented," I murmur. "One part of me continued with daily life, maintaining appearances, while another part..."

"...took the decisions the first one didn't dare to take," she concludes. "At first, it only happened during moments of extreme stress. Then the separation became more frequent."

The virtual space shakes violently. Through the speakers, I hear Damián's alarmed voice:

"The connection is becoming unstable. We need to get you out of there now."

But before I can respond, my other self takes a decisive step towards me, blurring the distance between us.

I remove the helmet with fingers that seem to belong to someone else. Each movement feels strange, as if I were operating a body I know but which somehow has changed its dimensions. I slowly sit up in Damián's armchair, feeling a wave of dizziness that forces me to hold onto the armrests.

"Did it work?" Damián asks, leaning towards me with a clinical look, studying every microexpression on my face.

"I'm not sure," I respond, and my voice sounds familiar and alien at the same time. "I feel... different. Like there's more space inside me."

Memories I don't fully recognize filter between mine: a conversation with Altafilms' director where I passionately argued for my documentary vision; the visceral feeling of freedom when writing that email to Roberto, without fear of consequences; the physical pleasure of donating to causes that always mattered to me without calculating how it would affect my budget.

In the following days, this duality becomes my new normality. I preserve my essence, my history, my insecurities... but interwoven with impulses I previously repressed. During a meeting with a cosmetics brand, I surprise myself negotiating with a firmness I never showed before, demanding an ethical clause I would have considered too risky weeks earlier.

It's not a perfect fusion. There are moments of dissonance, like when I catch myself buying clothes I would never have dared to wear, or writing posts more vulnerable than my self-preservation instinct would consider prudent. But there's also a strange harmony in this coexistence, like two different instruments learning to play the same melody.

Tomás notices it immediately when we meet for coffee at our usual café.

"There's something different about you," he says, observing me with that penetrating look he's always had. "I can't define it, but it's like... you shine more."

I smile enigmatically while stirring my coffee.

"Let's say I've integrated some parts of myself I had forgotten."

The mirror in my dressing room returns an image that no longer seems strange to me, but still surprises me. I'm wearing the emerald dress — now a regular piece in my wardrobe — combined with worn-out sneakers that I would have previously considered too "ordinary" to show on my networks. The contradiction pleases me. It represents what I am now.

Almost two months have passed since the fusion. Damián calls it "neural-digital reintegration", but for me, it's simply finding balance. Like learning to ride a bicycle: at first, everything is unstable, then it becomes instinctive.

My followers have noticed the change. Some have left, bewildered by this new Luna who sometimes shows her dark circles without a filter or dares to talk about topics she previously avoided. But others have arrived, attracted by this imperfect authenticity that now permeates my content.

Claudia, my agent, was about to have a heart attack when I rejected that millionaire anti-aging cream campaign after investigating their business practices. "It's professional suicide," she warned me. But it turned out that decision attracted three brands more aligned with my values. The real ones.

While editing photos for my next post — a carousel about my visit to an animal shelter — I feel a strange twinge in my chest. A nostalgia I cannot immediately identify. I leave the computer and approach the window.

The sunset paints Madrid in that particular blue I love to photograph. The blue hour. The moment when everything seems possible, where boundaries blur.

And then I understand: I miss my other self. Not as a separate entity, but as that conversation we had. That moment of brutal honesty where we truly saw each other.

I take my phone to check notifications while reflecting on this feeling. Did I completely absorb her? Or did we simply learn to share the same space, like roommates who have established a harmonious routine?

It's then that I see it. A message that freezes my blood.

The notification illuminates my screen and freezes my heart: "Tomás Vidal has tagged you in a post from @nocturnal_mirror". I don't recognize the account, but something in that name instantly provokes a chill.

I open the image with trembling fingers. It's Tomás, but... not quite. He's at the Skybar of the Índigo hotel, that pretentious place full of posturing influencers he's always hated. He holds a champagne glass with studied elegance. His smile is perfect, calculated, like something from a catalog. The position of his shoulders, slightly leaned back, exudes a confidence I've never seen in him.

It's Tomás, but it's not Tomás. Like me, but not me.

No. This can't be happening again.

I dial his number urgently, feeling panic climbing my throat.

"Tomás, where are you right now?" I ask without greeting.

"At home, editing some photos. Why?" his voice sounds normal, slightly distracted.

"Have you been at the Skybar of the Índigo hotel today?"

There's a confused pause on the other end of the line.

"No, you know I hate those pretentious places. Why do you ask?"

A chill runs down my spine. The image is from just two hours ago, according to the timestamp. The phenomenon hasn't ended; it has simply found a new host.

Before I can explain what I'm seeing, my phone vibrates with a message from Damián:

"We need to talk. What you experienced may be contagious. Close contact with someone during the integration can create new fracture points in other people. Come to my office. Bring your friend."

I look again at the photo. The digital Tomás looks directly at me, with a half-smile that seems to say: "Were you looking for me? Here I am." His eyes have that recognition sparkle, as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking at this moment.

Did I really integrate with my other self? Or did I just open a door that I can't close now?

"Tomás," I say finally, "I need you to come with me to a place. There's someone you should meet."

"What is all this about, Luna?" he asks, with a note of concern in his voice.

"About broken mirrors and reflections that come to life," I respond, while observing my own reflection on the phone screen, wondering for an instant which version of myself is really in control at this moment.