Sarah had always known exactly who she was. "I'm a progressive activist," she'd say at parties. "I'm a vegan. I'm someone who fights for social justice." Each label felt like armor, protecting her from the chaos of an uncertain world.
The mirror room appeared on a Tuesday.
She'd been walking to her usual coffee shop when she noticed the door—plain wood, unremarkable, wedged between the pharmacy and the dry cleaner where no door had been before. A small sign read: "Identity Services - Walk-ins Welcome."
Inside, mirrors lined every surface—floor, ceiling, walls. Not reflective glass, but something deeper, more liquid. Each mirror showed a different version of Sarah.
In one, she saw herself in a business suit, laughing with colleagues over a steak dinner. "I'm a capitalist," this Sarah was saying. "I believe in personal responsibility."
"That's not me," Sarah whispered.
"Isn't it?" asked a voice. She turned but saw no one, just more mirrors.
Another mirror showed her in military fatigues, calm and focused, making split-second decisions that saved lives. This Sarah had never questioned authority, never protested, never doubted the necessity of force.
"These are all wrong," Sarah said louder.
"Are they?" The voice seemed to come from everywhere. "Or are they all you?"
More mirrors. Sarah the mother, fierce and protective, having abandoned her activism for her children's soccer games. Sarah the corporate lawyer, having discovered she enjoyed winning more than justice. Sarah the hermit, having rejected society entirely. Sarah the preacher, having found God in her darkest hour.
"I am who I choose to be!" Sarah shouted at her reflections.
"Yes," the voice said gently. "And who you choose not to be limits you just as much."
Sarah stared at the progressive activist in the mirror directly in front of her—the "real" Sarah. But now she could see the invisible chains: the ideas she'd never allow herself to consider, the people she'd never befriend, the experiences she'd never permit herself to have.
"If I'm not my identity," she asked the empty room, "then what am I?"
"You are," the voice replied. "Everything else is costume."
Sarah reached toward the mirror showing her as an activist. Her hand passed through the liquid surface. She could step through, return to the safety of knowing exactly who she was. Or...
She looked around the room at all her possible selves, then walked to the center where no mirrors reflected anything back—just empty space.
"I am," she said quietly.
The mirrors began to dissolve, one by one, until only the room remained. Then the room itself faded.
Sarah stood on the sidewalk between the pharmacy and dry cleaner. No door. But she felt different—not empty, but full. Not lost, but free.
At the coffee shop, the barista asked, "The usual?"
Sarah paused. She'd ordered the same drink for three years—fair trade, oat milk, no sugar, because that's what people like her ordered.
"Actually," she said, "surprise me."
The barista smiled and handed her something new. As Sarah tasted it, she realized she couldn't remember what kind of person would drink this.
For the first time in years, that felt like freedom.
Who am I? I am. Any other description is slavery.