[The shadows in the mirror ripple and flicker like the invisible edge of a flame. There's water--dark, dirty, putrid, can you smell it?--and a bench away at a distance. A piano bench.
There's no sound, no echoes save your breathing and the crashing of glass in the distance. Someone else is there, maybe you should check? But the mirror is so alluring, something about it makes you want to stare.
A figure sits on that bench, perfect posture, fingers in motion, cheerfully playing a soft, haunting tune. White hair curls lightly around a face that's harder than it should be, the smile a razor despite it's amusement.
It's far away, perhaps not even a sound at all, but a whisper trickling through your own mind. You can hear the music.