Chapter One

"Put the kettle on, Leila. The light is dying fast." My uncle’s voice cut through the hum of the refrigerator, sharp as a blade against rust. I was forty-two, a clerk in a crumbling Ottoman-era house that smelled of damp plaster and old paper, and I wanted only to repair the cracked porcelain mirror my late mother had kept. What stood against him was not the glass, but the mirror’s supernatural property, which reflected the viewer’s remaining years, and the first sign was Leila seeing only a few months left. I stood before it in the dim kitchen, the high school diploma unclaimed on the shelf above me, a relic of a life I had never fully entered. The fracture ran from the top corner to the bottom left, a jagged scar that seemed to pulse in the low February light. I reached out, my fingers trembling, and touched the cold surface. The reflection did not move with me. It watched.

Chapter Two‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‍‍‌‌⁠‍​⁠​‍​‍⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‌​‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌​​​​‍⁠‍​‌‌​​

I tried to clean the fracture with a damp cloth, the water beading on the grime, but the glass shattered further, revealing a shadow that moved independently within the dust. I realized the mirror was not broken but hungry, feeding on my time to sustain the house’s decay. The sound of nails dropped in a metal pail echoed from the street outside, a rhythmic clatter that marked the passage of seconds. I pulled my hand back, burning with a sudden, primal fear. The shadow in the mirror stretched, long and thin, like a crack in the foundation. I thought of the retraining center where I had spent my twenties, the bedsit with the gas ring that hissed in the dark, and the retirement fund that had been drained by management fees until there was nothing left but the memory of safety. The mirror was a trap, a vessel for the time I had lost.

Chapter Three‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‍‍‌‌⁠‍​⁠​‍​‍⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‌​‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌​​​​‍⁠‍​‌‌​​

My nephew, Yusuf, a doctor with tired eyes and hands that shook when he held his pen, visited the next day. He diagnosed me with a terminal illness, confirming the mirror’s vision with a silence that was heavier than any words. He urged me to sell the house, to leave the past behind, but I refused, believing the mirror was the only thing holding my mother’s memory intact. We sat in the living room, the air heavy with burnt coffee and decay. "You have to go, Teta," he said, his voice breaking. "This place is eating you." I looked at the division of the fields on the map he had spread out, the lines drawn in red ink, marking what was mine and what was lost. I remembered the fire that took the barn and the receipts, the way the smoke had curled into the sky like a question I refused to answer. The inherited tool in my drawer, a screwdriver that did not fit my hand, lay on the table, proof of the repairs I had made badly, the patches I had tried to hold together.

Chapter Four‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‍‍‌‌⁠‍​⁠​‍​‍⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‌​‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌​​​​‍⁠‍​‌‌​​

I began to spend my final days not in fear, but in meticulous care of the house, polishing every surface until the wood gleamed under the weak lamp. I realized the mirror’s hunger was a metaphor for my own refusal to let go of the past. The shadow in the mirror grew stronger, whispering that my death would free the house, its voice a low murmur that I could feel in my teeth. I confronted the reflection, accepting that my life’s work was not to preserve the house, but to prepare for its end. I thought of the cop born on the street, the one who had walked past our door a thousand times, never seeing the rot inside. I picked up the hammer, the head heavy in my grip, the wood worn smooth by decades of use. The light was fading, the angle of the sun low and slanting, casting long shadows across the floor. I struck the center of the mirror with a final, decisive blow.

Chapter Five‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‍‍‌‌⁠‍​⁠​‍​‍⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‌​‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌​​​​‍⁠‍​‌‌​​

The mirror exploded into dust, and the shadow vanished, leaving only a cloud of gray particles that settled on the floor. I felt a sudden, profound lightness, as if a weight I had carried for decades had been lifted from my shoulders. I sat on the floor, surrounded by glass shards, and smiled as I felt my heart stop. The house finally fell silent, the hum of the refrigerator gone, the wind outside still. I looked at the one hundred and twenty-six of the Tannery Steps in the distance, a number I had counted a thousand times, a marker of the path I had taken. The Northgale scrimshaw button on my coat caught the last of the light, a small, dark eye watching me. I placed my hand, still holding the hammer, gently on the dust, a promise kept small, a final image of rest.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‍‍‌‌⁠‍​⁠​‍​‍⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‌​‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌​​​​‍⁠‍​‌‌​​