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A cop
Detroit. Twenty twenty-five. October twelfth.

Dispatch sent me to a break-in. Corner shop. Owner swore someone was inside. When I got there, the glass was shattered, alarms wailing. But inside? Empty.

I checked the aisles. Nothing. Then I saw the security mirror in the corner—the big round kind. My reflection wasn’t me. Not exactly. He was a little taller. Smiling when I wasn’t.

I raised my flashlight. He raised his. Beam against beam. For a second I thought it was just angle, distortion. Then he mouthed my name.

Not “officer.” Not “sir.” My name.

I left faster than I’d like to admit. Told the shop owner it was clear. Filed it as a false alarm. But I know what I saw.

And now, every time I check my cruiser’s side mirror, I expect to see him waiting.