She stood there, her left foot slightly ahead of the right, arms crossed. A gaze refracted through the prism of yesterday's rains. Not silver, but memory-laden glass. The mirror showed her twice; once plainly, once in all its cloudy obfuscation.
"But in the end, isn't it all just a reflection of a reflection?"
A soft hum echoed around the room, perhaps the heater, perhaps something ethereal. The type of hum that makes you realize the world is stitching itself together, seam by seam, moment by moment. And there she finds herself, caught in the reflection of someone's gaze.
The light from the window begins to shift under the shifting clouds. Do rainy days bring clarity? Or do they simply blur the edges of reality, allowing impressions to seep through the cracks like a whisper from a long-lost friend?
Follow the whisper Reflect further