My own eyes glower back at me, my gaze harsh and unwavering from the page. It’s a portrait from the shoulders up, shelves of bottles blurring behind me in the background, and it’s drawn in such painstaking detail that a loud buzzing sound fills my brain.

Because… my stubble. My mouth. That tiny scar notched in my earlobe, from a stray fishing hook when I was a boy. The tired lines at the corners of my eyes. It’s all there, every last detail of me—like looking in a mirror, except more flattering somehow.

When did Waverly look at me so closely? When did she stare long enough to draw this?...