Dul Repack — Desiree

Desirée Dul had never liked her middle name. It was her grandmother’s, a ghost of an old country she’d never seen, and it landed on her like a damp cloth: Dul . Dull. Soft. Muffled.

You , the sensation said. Out there .

At first, nothing. Her own tired face, a stray hair, the beige sweater. Then she blinked—and the reflection blinked back a half-second too late. desiree dul

“Who are you?” she whispered.

The reflection pointed at her, then at the world beyond the window: the city lights, the distant thrum of a late-night train, a couple arguing on the sidewalk below. Desirée Dul had never liked her middle name

Not the mirror. The air. The boundary between them. Out there

That night, she stood in her sterile apartment—white walls, gray rug, a single succulent on the sill—and stared into the black glass. The reflection was no longer mimicking her. It was living. Dancing. Tearing open a bag of neon-pink chips. Laughing with a mouth full of crumbs.