Reflection

She had not come home.

The husband was in the kitchen, pacing, stone-faced, hands clenched, silent. Every time he turned, his heels squeaked on the tiles, and with every turn he glanced at the son. The son on the living room carpet that made his toys soundless.

She placed her palm against the glass.

She had not come home.

There were steps in the hall and she knew the husband noticed her retreating. But the haze of the metal letterbox did not reveal her coming home, it tore apart the blue of two uniforms, washed out like static on TV and by the time she had untangled herself from badly polished iron they marked a corner of the living room.

The husband was talking, lowly, hushed, his lips tight, and with every swallow, he looked at the son.

She pressed her face to the glass.

The husband glanced up, but shook his head, shook it harder when she banged her fist and then the officers turned and he tensed like a wave rolling in.

"Case of Narcissus?" the tall one asked.

"She was fine," the husband ground his jaw, "She just liked the company, but only here."

"Only here?" the other one came closer with that tilted wariness of a man approaching a lion in a zoo.

"We had an arrangement." She leaned in, he stopped. "What happened?"

"Would you mind-" the husband moved, sharply, hectically, pushed the policeman back with a glance at the son and then he leaned so close she could feel his breath- "Accident. She's not coming home. We will talk about it later."

"Accident?" her voice slipped with the word. "What accident? What happened?"

"We found her downtown in the alley behind the Governor's Inn, looks like she fell from the window," the officer cleared his throat, glanced at the son, "Impact broke her neck."

"No, she- she wouldn't... The Governor's Inn, she would never go to a place like that! What was she even doing there? There is no way she-" she shook her head, swallowed, stopped, "She wanted to be home by five, she-"

"We will talk about it later," the husband interrupted and his hands pulled the curtain down.

She stood, numb, behind the fabric and stared at its creases. Running down, one by one by one, until they were all out of her sight.

Inside, she was screaming. Inside, she was banging her fists against the glass and shaking her body and throwing her legs against the floor. Inside, she was loud. Outside, she was crying. Silent. Thinking of the son. So, the tears chased each other. One by one by one.

The chill came first. A presence felt but not seen, known. It lingered, somewhere just out of reach of being able to breathe down her neck, it lingered until she turned.

It had no colour. No face. Nothing but a stale silver that itched the eyes because it swore it should be reflecting but rubbed dull from every angle. It moved with her, soundless, quiet, slinked closer and tilted its head, up. It had a nose. Eyes, too. In that way that a faceless thing could have such features, torn down under fabric tight above them. Through the fabric, there was breath.

"An accident?" it spoke.

"That is what they said."

She glanced back at the curtain. It was surreal still. In her peripheral vision, its head tilted, further, wider, rolled off its neck that millimetre too far.

"An accident? Did you not love her? Deeply?"

"Naturally."

"But was it not more?" it touched. "Deeper?"