Reflections of Light

The sun was breaking through the barren trees with a cold light when she threw open the door. Her silhouette raced down the hallway and up the opposing wall, the shadow of her head falling against the pale dustsheet covering the old looking glass. Not bothering to close the door, nor wishing to enclose herself within the darkness of the old house yet, she steadily approached the hidden mirror. Her measured steps, a long forgotten sound in that abandoned place, echoed in the empty chambers of the old home. But steps must either end or go on, and hers ended before the mirror. She still had to look up at it just as, when a child, she looked up at it, gazing at the bronze frame patterned like woven vines, unable to see whatever reflection was there that the strangers would always come to see.

Her hand clasped a fold of the obscuring cloth, and she felt the rough canvas in her tightening grip. A breeze followed her inside, and through her long coat she shivered. Letting go, her arm fell to her side. At a somewhat brisker pace, she clomped back to the portal. Outside, the sun had hit that point in its wintery descent where its long stretching beams spread out from the horizon’s very edge, a cool, clear, white light interrupted by the shadowy figures of elms and sycamores. And framed there, looking out the door, she smiled at the world. The light shone off her pale face, and she watched the drawing of a day to its close, feeling the comforts of night descend with every subtle sound of nocturnal wanderings and growing shadow.

And seeing the world to sleep, she closed the door.


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