"It knows more about me than I do," she whispered. The mirror, cold and unyielding, reflected not just her image but the shadows of her thoughts.

Sometimes in the quiet hours, when the world drifts into slumber, those whispers become clear. They are echoes of truths we try to fold neatly into our lives but that bulge out, untamed, from the seams.

"What have you seen that I cannot?" she asked, daring the still surface to answer.

These reflections create tangents in our dialogue, paths along which we walk alone, tracing the remnants of conversations held long ago in corners of our minds. Each reflection a sentence in a narrative, each narrative a tapestry spun from experiences and dreams alike.