It started like any other day.

Sunlight poured through the window. The couch was warm. Simba, as usual, assumed his rightful perch on the armrest — noble, alert, watching the room like the tiny guardian he believes he is.

But then…
The mirror caught his eye.

At first, it was just his reflection — the amber fluff, the slightly-too-serious gaze, the dignified mole beneath his left eye. All normal. All expected.

Simba has been spending a lot of time in front of the mirror lately.
Not in a “check-me-out-I’m-gorgeous” kind of way. (Although, to be fair, he is.)
No — this is different.

He watches it like it might do something.
Something it shouldn’t.

At first, I thought it was just one of his “Pomeranian things.” You know, like refusing to eat unless he’s emotionally ready, or barking at dogs ten times his size because apparently he’s immortal.

But lately, it’s gotten…weird.

This morning, he climbed onto the couch arm — his usual perch — and stared into the mirror. Silent. Intense. His tiny brows doing that squinty thing like he was solving a mystery only he understood.

Then, out of nowhere, he barked.
Just once.

Short. Sharp. Intentional.

And here’s where it gets strange:
The bark echoed back.
But not from the room.
From the mirror.
And it wasn’t quite the same.

It sounded…off. Like someone trying very hard to bark exactly like Simba, but missing by a millisecond. Too synchronized to be a coincidence. Too delayed to be a reflection.

Simba stared a second longer, tilted his head like he was making a note, and walked away. No drama. No panic. Just… done.

Except—his reflection didn’t move.
Not right away.

So.

Totally normal morning.