The Version Who Stayed
Book One in The Mirror Archive Series
Auren Solven thought they had left the past behind—until a letter arrives with five haunting words: Some versions of you never left.
Drawn to a mysterious bookstore that doesn’t appear on any map, Auren stumbles through a mirror into a life they never lived: one where they stayed, where love didn’t end, where dreams weren’t abandoned. In this new version of reality, everything seems perfect—until the cracks begin to show.
As Auren navigates relationships that feel real but aren’t truly theirs, they must confront the lingering weight of regret, the ache of unspoken choices, and the emotional truth that the hardest journey is the one back to yourself.
Blending introspective realism with quiet speculative elements, The Version Who Stayed is a deeply human story about identity, memory, and the infinite lives we almost lived. Perfect for fans of The Midnight Library, Station Eleven, and emotionally reflective fiction that lingers long after the final page, this novel asks: What if the version of you who made a different choice never truly disappeared?
The Version Who Stayed
Book One in The Mirror Archive Series
Auren Solven thought they had left the past behind—until a letter arrives with five haunting words: Some versions of you never left.
Drawn to a mysterious bookstore that doesn’t appear on any map, Auren stumbles through a mirror into a life they never lived: one where they stayed, where love didn’t end, where dreams weren’t abandoned. In this new version of reality, everything seems perfect—until the cracks begin to show.
As Auren navigates relationships that feel real but aren’t truly theirs, they must confront the lingering weight of regret, the ache of unspoken choices, and the emotional truth that the hardest journey is the one back to yourself.
Blending introspective realism with quiet speculative elements, The Version Who Stayed is a deeply human story about identity, memory, and the infinite lives we almost lived. Perfect for fans of The Midnight Library, Station Eleven, and emotionally reflective fiction that lingers long after the final page, this novel asks: What if the version of you who made a different choice never truly disappeared?
The air held a stillness that didn’t match the calendar. April 12th—spring by definition, but the morning sun poured in like a memory reluctant to warm anything. Auren Solven sat at their kitchen table, fingers wrapped around a chipped mug of black tea. The silence was thick, as if the apartment itself knew the date.
They hadn’t meant to remember. Not consciously. But the body has its own memory. And somewhere between brushing their teeth and choosing socks, Auren had found themselves thinking of her—of the hallway goodbye, of the words they didn’t say.
Outside, the city moved on. Buses exhaled at crosswalks. Neighbors banged stairwell doors. Auren remained still.
On the table was a letter. No stamp, no address. Just a folded sheet of creamy paper slipped under their door sometime before dawn. The handwriting was unfamiliar and deliberate:
“Some versions of you never left.”
The words hit like breath held too long. The paper trembled slightly as Auren set it down, heart pacing ahead of comprehension.
They’d spent years learning to live with their choices. Years stitching together a life from the scraps of a decision made one rainy evening in a train station. It hadn’t been dramatic. No tears. No last-minute chase. Just a quiet nod and the shuffle of footsteps in opposite directions.
But now—now the past had come tapping.
Auren stared at the letter again. Some part of them already knew this wasn’t a joke, or a mistake. Something had shifted. Some door, long locked, had creaked open.
And something was waiting on the other side.
They stood up, pacing the apartment as if it might give them answers. Their place was sparse but deliberate—bookshelves in organized chaos, a half-unpacked canvas leaning against a wall, and a record player that hadn’t been used in months. It was a space designed for solitude, functional and quiet. Auren liked it that way.
Mostly.
Their phone buzzed—a message from Micah, someone who had once been Auren’s anchor, now demoted to sporadic texts and obligatory birthday check-ins. The message was simple:
Thinking of you today. Want to get coffee later?
Auren didn’t reply.
Instead, they moved to the window. From their second-story perch, they watched as pedestrians trickled past. None of them looked up. No one ever looked up.
The hallway goodbye came back in pieces. Leona’s face turned away just before the final words. The sound of a bag unzipping. The train’s low hum. The way Auren had walked away first, thinking that meant they were in control.
Control. That was the myth, wasn’t it? That you could steer your life cleanly. That regret was just a wrinkle you ironed out with time.
They turned back toward the letter, which still sat on the table like a challenge.
There was no signature. No indication of who sent it. The handwriting didn’t match anyone they knew. It was old-fashioned, the kind you’d find in a leather-bound book or carved into tree bark.
Auren slid it into the notebook they kept beside the kettle—a journal they hadn’t touched in months. Then, on impulse, they dug through a drawer until they found a dusty Polaroid. It was the only physical photo they still had of Leona.
In it, she stood on a beach, wind in her curls, laughing at something just out of frame. Auren had taken it on a trip they never spoke of again. They remembered the sunburn, the shared headphones, the conversation about parallel lives that had seemed like a joke at the time.
“You ever wonder what would’ve happened if we’d just… stayed?” Leona had asked.
“No,” Auren had lied.
The kettle screamed, snapping them out of memory. They poured another mug without really tasting it. The silence thickened again. It was the kind that asks questions.
Why today?
Why now?
What version of Auren had stayed—and where?
The letter had said some versions, plural. Which meant more than one. Which meant this wasn’t just memory. It was something else.
Restless, they put on shoes and stepped out into the hallway. The floor creaked in the familiar places. The elevator groaned as usual. But when they stepped outside, something was—off. Not wrong, exactly. Just... softer. The light had an amber tint, as though the sun hadn’t decided what kind of day it wanted to be.
The bookstore wasn’t far. There wasn’t a name on the front, just a painted sign that read OPEN in flaking gold leaf. A bell jingled as they entered, the kind of jingle that seemed too delicate for the noise of the world.
Inside, it smelled like parchment, wood, and dust that had settled with intention. Rows of uneven bookshelves loomed like trees. There was no clerk in sight.
Auren wandered, fingers grazing spines. Some titles were in languages they didn’t recognize. Others had no titles at all—just textured covers and embossed symbols.
In the back, behind a thick curtain, a soft light pulsed. Not electric. Not fire. Something else.
They didn’t go in.
Not yet.
Instead, they turned a corner and found a mirror. It wasn’t particularly grand—tall, narrow, framed in tarnished silver—but the surface shimmered slightly, like heat on asphalt.
Auren stared. Their reflection looked the same.
Almost.
The expression was too calm. The eyes too steady. It was like watching someone impersonate them perfectly—except for the subtle wrongness that made their skin crawl.
They took a step back.
The mirror didn’t.
Auren blinked—and the mirror was just a mirror again.
They turned and left the bookstore. Fast.
Back home, the letter burned a hole in their mind. They opened the journal and started writing.
April 12th. A letter. A mirror. A version of me that didn’t blink. I think today is a hinge. Something is about to open. Or close.
They closed the notebook, heart still racing.
Some versions of you never left.
Maybe it was time to find out what that meant.
The Version Who Stayed by Kris Poria is an enticing and breathtaking novella that takes the reader along with the protagonist into the depths of their mind and imagination. This philosophical text carries within its lines that defy structure, thrilling vibes. It is a story of a person unable to completely let go of the past and settle into the present. Against the background of psychological realism and the fantastic elements of speculative fiction and parallel universes, Poria beautifully weaves a tale of self-discovery in a way that gives the reader goose bumps and at the same time brings them to tears.
The protagonist, Auren, goes on a quest to find their truth. Whether in an attempt at inclusivity or the necessity of the blurred gender for the plot, Auren’s unknown gender makes it easier for the reader to relate to them and feel their experiences away from the implications of gender. The book, long enough to make an impact but too short for the reader begging for more, made me question which version of myself I was. As mentioned by a character in the book, “[Poria’s] work makes me feel like I’ve just remembered something I forgot I experienced” (88).
To depict the ploys of the mind and the fragmentation the protagonist endured, the use of fragmented sentences, informal language and imagism fits perfectly. Poria’s smooth style makes the story a quick read, but their deep contemplations of human existence and the existential and philosophical questions they brilliantly and effortlessly insert in the book force the reader to pause and wonder. At one point, I had to stop reading, cry for about twenty minutes, then go to sleep. It has been a while since a book had that impact on me.
Auren’s struggle between what is socially approved as success and happiness and their own truth is a theme that everybody can identify with. Poria, however, manipulates a blend of genres and techniques to concoct a story that depicts that inner struggle perfectly, and they deliver. I can think of a few people who have been waiting for such a book their entire lives; I did.
You will find yourself rooting for Auren but also for the other characters. You will drink more tea than is humanly possible while reading. And you will cry. You will think, question and cry. Auren could be you. They could be any of us.