Leonardo Dicaprio Cheers

Chapter 3 — The Reflections

Morning came thin and silver. The fog from the lake pressed close against the windows, turning every pane of glass into a dull mirror. Margaret dressed without speaking; the air inside the house felt thick, as if each breath belonged to someone else before her.

Thomas had already gone to town for lumber. The quiet he left behind was the kind that seemed to wait for a reply. Margaret walked from room to room, touching the furniture, tracing the outlines of dust. When she passed the hallway mirror, her reflection hesitated. Only for an instant—but long enough for her stomach to tighten.

She turned back sharply. Her image stood as it should, pale and still, shawl knotted at the throat. The glass, though, was warm beneath her palm.

"Sometimes the windows copy you wrong. They like to keep a piece."

Down by the lake, Josephine crouched among the reeds, sketchbook balanced on her knees. The morning mist slid over the water in ribbons. She dipped her pencil again and drew the willow, the house, the shape of the swing that no one else could see. Beside the swing, a faint outline of another girl took form almost of its own accord.

A ripple broke the lake’s surface. Josephine glanced up; no wind stirred. Still, the water moved as though someone had stepped into it. When she looked down again, her reflection had company—a smaller face, just beside her shoulder, smiling.

“Do you live here?” Josephine whispered.
The smile in the water widened, then vanished in the widening circles of the ripple.

Margaret walked the short mile to the village after lunch, needing air that didn’t smell of the lake. The general store stood half-empty, its bell jangling softly as she entered. A man behind the counter looked up from his newspaper.

“You’re in the Walker place,” he said, not as a question.
“Yes,” Margaret answered. “We just moved in.”
He nodded slowly. “Brave thing to do.”

When she asked what he meant, he only shrugged and turned away, muttering that old houses “remember too much.” On the corkboard by the door hung a row of fading photographs for sale—fishing parties, harvest scenes, children at the lakeshore. One picture caught her eye: a young girl in a white dress beneath the same willow, head tilted, eyes half-closed against the sun. Someone had written a date in the margin and a single word: Josie.

Margaret’s pulse quickened. She almost bought it, but the shopkeeper said quietly, “Best leave the past where it is, ma’am.”

Back home, Josephine met her at the porch with her drawing. “Look,” she said, proud and uneasy all at once. Two girls beneath the willow, hand in hand. Margaret forced a smile. “It’s beautiful, darling. Who’s the other one?”

“She wanted to be in it,” Josephine said. “She says the lake is her mirror.”

That night, the house refused to settle. The boards ticked and sighed. The radio hummed a single low note without power. Margaret lay awake until the sound faded into silence—only to realize it had changed pitch, become a whisper that shaped her name.

In the next room, Josephine stirred, whispering the same syllables at the same time.

Margaret sat up. “Jo?”

From the hallway came her own voice, perfectly clear, answering: “Yes, Mother.”

But Josephine was still in bed. And the reply had come from the mirror.

"When she looks at the glass, she almost remembers me."

The whisper died away, leaving the house hollow and still. Outside, the willow moved without wind, its reflection trembling on the lake like breath on a mirror.