The hill town of Valverde was waking up, its terraced houses catching the early light, but the municipal archive sat in shadow, a concrete block that smelled of wet dust and old paper. Vincenzo Trapani stood in the courtyard, his left hand trembling as he held a shattered bronze mirror, the shards cold against his palm. He was thirty-four, a night watchman with a pension three years away, and he needed to return this object before dawn to avoid being fired for negligence. The rain had stopped, leaving the air thick and warm, a November heat that felt wrong, like a fever breaking too early. He looked at the mirror. In the fractured surface, a boy stood where he was, holding a weapon he did not possess. The lag was three seconds. He moved his hand; the boy in the mirror moved it a beat later.

The chalk lines that marked the courtyard’s boundary were fading, washed away by the last of the storm. Without the Director’s signature, the mirror was lost property, and the institution’s protocol was absolute. Vincenzo tried to call out, but his voice was swallowed by the silence of the empty street. He could hear the gas meter ticking in the wall, a steady, mechanical heartbeat that counted down his remaining time. He walked to the main entrance. The door was barred. He pounded on it, the sound dull and dead against the wood. In the mirror, the boy was no longer lagging. The reflection was synchronized. The boy was breaking the door down. Vincenzo stopped. He was not holding a weapon. He was about to break the door. The system expected him to fail; it had always expected him to fail.

A figure appeared at the gate. Old Marco, the janitor, held a broom. He did not speak. He looked at Vincenzo’s shaking hand, then at the mirror, and gestured toward the side entrance.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠‍​‌‍⁠​⁠‍​‍⁠‍⁠‍⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​​​‍‌‍​​​‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‌‌​⁠‌​​⁠​​​​‌‌‍‍​

A shortcut. Vincenzo hesitated. The protocol said the main door. The janitor’s silence was an offer, but it was also a trap.

Vincenzo chose the main entrance. He pounded again. The anger rose in his chest, hot and acidic. The reflection showed him swinging the mirror.

He realized the mirror was not lagging. It was predicting. Marco returned. This time, he held a key.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠‍​‌‍⁠​⁠‍​‍⁠‍⁠‍⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​​​‍‌‍​​​‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‌‌​⁠‌​​⁠​​​​‌‌‍‍​

He handed it to Vincenzo without a word. Vincenzo took it. His hand was steady now. The mirror showed him turning the key.

He trusted the janitor. He walked to the side entrance. It was a trash chute. The key fit.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠‍​‌‍⁠​⁠‍​‍⁠‍⁠‍⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​​​‍‌‍​​​‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‌‌​⁠‌​​⁠​​​​‌‌‍‍​

He had been manipulated into a public humiliation. The institution’s bias was not in the locked door, but in the path he had been allowed to take. Vincenzo looked at the key in his hand. It was heavy, brass, and cold.

He threw it into the mud. He turned back to the mirror. The boy was gone. An old man stood there, frail, broken, holding nothing.

The lag had reversed. The reflection was ahead. Vincenzo saw his future. He accepted it.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠‍​‌‍⁠​⁠‍​‍⁠‍⁠‍⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​​​‍‌‍​​​‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‌‌​⁠‌​​⁠​​​​‌‌‍‍​

He did not break the door. He did not enter the study. He stood in the wet courtyard, the mirror in his hand, the reflection showing him walking away.

He walked out of the courtyard. The air was cold now, the warm spell gone. The mirror shattered in his hand, the shards cutting his palm. The blood ran, red and bright against the grey stone. The reflection was gone. He was alone. The institution was safe. The pension was lost. The mirror’s image was separated from him, leaving only the blood on his hand. He sat on the curb, the broken pieces scattered around him, reflecting the streetlights. The gas meter ticked. One hundred and twenty-six of Gallows Corner was a place he had never visited, but it felt like a destination. He looked at his bleeding hand, the only thing that remained of the ritual. The silence was heavy. He thought of the Northgale green glass stopper, a small thing, lost in a drawer, just like him. The clock in the wrong tower struck four. The sound was distant, mechanical, and final. Vincenzo Trapani sat in the dark, the shards glinting in the rain, a tragic irony of his own making, the account settled with the dead.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠‍​‌‍⁠​⁠‍​‍⁠‍⁠‍⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​​​‍‌‍​​​‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‌‌​⁠‌​​⁠​​​​‌‌‍‍​