Somewhere between dusk and the forgotten hours of night, she gazed into the mirror. Not to check the swell of her pins or the drape of her gown, but to steal some forgotten warmth from the shade of herself that shimmered there.
When she tilted her head, the mist in the mirror tilted too, following her movements with an echoing silence. In the mists, whispered reflections cascaded in and out of focus:
"Have I...?" "Not yet... to say." The echoes spoke of outskirts she might reach but always leave behind. It felt haunting, like losing half a conversation in a relentless wind.
Sometimes the mirror showed what the world hid: A garden choked by roots of yesterday, and footprints tracing the paths untaken. She reached toward the mists, fingertips brushing against a silent expanse.
Hear those words? They swell as starlit musings untethered, yet clinging stubbornly to who she was beneath the haze. Tomorrow remains rooted in today's sighs. Read other echoes here or there.