Elena moves through a city that seems increasingly fake, trapped in a perfect and disturbing script. The testimonies of collaborators reveal to her the existence of the Mirrors, instruments that don't reflect but connect each individual to their avatar: a double that speaks, decides, manipulates, and obeys, always under surveillance. Every word spoken before that glass becomes an order, every affection a lever to bend consciences. In this fragile balance, Elena's life seems to split: who speaks to Matteo, on the other side of the Mirror?
When she is assigned to the Rebel Re-education Center, Elena descends into an underground world reeking of rust and disinfectant, a hell of dank corridors, correctional rooms, and dark "wells" where prisoners slowly lose their identities and memories. Among broken faces and unyielding gazes, Elena must evaluate who is "recoverable" and who is destined to fade into the shadows. Every encounter is a blow to the heart, every word a piercing blade. In those concrete bowels, fear becomes palpable, and the truth about the Mirrors takes shape with unbearable rawness.
In the heart of the city, between disturbing confessions and corridors of iron and silence, the psychiatrist discovers how thin the line between cure and annihilation is
Stories. The Mysteries of Oltrecolle. Chapter 22: Elena between deceptive mirrors and broken rebels.
Elena, meanwhile, walked through the city like a sleepwalker. The autumn light, so polite it seemed fake, could no longer fool her. Every morning, the same procession: Palazzo Cotto, nodding guards, polished corridors, an office as clean as an operating tray. "Her" collaborators waited in line, badges around their necks, a contained smile, recognition in their eyes: a psychiatrist is a stamp and an absolute, a yes or a no, a salvation or a reprieve.
It was during the third session of the day that he asked, with feigned nonchalance, "How do you communicate with your avatars? I want to understand your tools. What works, what they do."
A man in his fifties, with a gaunt face and the hands of a craftsman, looked at a vague point behind her, as one looks at the memory of a pain. "With the Mirror."
“The psychiatrist’s mirror?” Elena probed subtly.
"No, Doctor. The one at home. We all have it. It's where the old one was: bathroom, hallway, entryway. It looks the same, but when you stand in front of it, you don't see yourself.
You see... him. The avatar. The one who lives over there."Elena stiffened without showing it. "Don't you think? Ever?"
A murmur where fear ends and superstition begins. Another patient, a young woman, her cheeks flushed with anxiety: "Sometimes it seems like I'm looking at you, but it's not you. It's a glass that gives you another room. Another light. If you say 'Can you hear me?' the avatar moves its eyes. If you say 'Listen,' it stops. We give it directions. Who to contact, what words to use, which office to book..."
“And pay?” Elena asked, calibrating her tone.
The man chuckled mirthlessly. "There, you pay for everything. Here, you don't. The avatar buys, books, signs. He's the one who has to work hard. We..." He stopped, suddenly overcome by a fierce sense of shame. "We do our part."
Another voice, hard as a metal edge: "Not everyone has the same Mirror, Doctor. Some have more… powerful models. Those that carry more people. The image is clearer, the voice comes through better, the avatar is more obedient. It's a matter of merit."....
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