There was nothing unusual about the house, until she tried to leave it. When she stepped outside, she saw herself standing on the porch. The other version smiled politely. “You’re early,” she said. Confused, she stepped back inside—and the duplicate followed. Now there were two of them. Then three. Each time she tried to leave, another version appeared. Slightly different. Slightly wrong. One was calmer. One was angry. One refused to speak at all. The house filled with her reflections, each claiming to be the original. Arguments broke out. Accusations. Panic. In the chaos, one of them found the jar. Inside were tiny figures. Not people—versions. Variations of the same face, trapped mid-expression. “Proof,” one of them whispered. “We’re not real.” “No,” another said. “That’s what it wants us to think.” The jar slipped. Shattered. Silence followed. When it cleared, only one of them remained. She didn’t know which one she was. Authorities later described her as disoriented but coherent. She insisted the others had existed. That they’d argued. That they’d been real. In court, the case hinged on identity. Responsibility. Which version had committed the act? Which version stood before them now? The judge thanked them politely and asked to see the jar.