Liora found the mirror at the end of a narrow corridor that had no walls.
It stood upright in the open air, framed in silver so thin it was almost not there. From a distance it looked ordinary—tall enough to hold a person, clear enough to promise a faithful reflection.
She approached without hesitation.
At first, the mirror showed her exactly as she expected: face forward, eyes alert, hair slightly out of place from the wind. She nodded once, satisfied.
Then she shifted her weight.
The reflection did not.
Instead, another face slid into view beside her own. Not behind it. Not replacing it. Beside it, as if it had always been there and she had simply failed to notice.
Liora stepped closer. The mirror obliged by offering more.
There was a version of her looking away. Another mid-sentence, mouth just opening. One older, one younger, one whose expression she could not quite read. None were distorted. None were exaggerated. Each was precise, coherent, and unmistakably her.
She raised a hand. Several hands rose in reply.
“Choose one,” said a voice.
She turned. A woman stood nearby, dressed in a coat sewn with many seams, none of which met.
“Choose one?” Liora asked.
“To speak with,” the woman said. “The mirror works better that way.”
Liora studied the reflections carefully.
Each face made sense on its own. Each responded consistently when addressed. She pointed to one that looked calm, observant.
“That one,” she said.
The mirror sharpened. The other faces faded—not disappearing, but slipping just out of focus, like thoughts politely waiting their turn.
For a moment, everything worked.
Liora asked a question. The chosen reflection answered.
Then, mid-answer, another face leaned forward uninvited and finished the sentence differently.
Both answers were right.
The mirror shimmered.
“This is why we usually restrict access,” the woman said, not unkindly.
“They won’t stay separate,” Liora replied.
“No,” said the woman. “They can’t.”
Liora tried again. This time she drew a line in the dust at her feet.
“Only what stands here may speak,” she said.
The mirror complied—briefly. One face aligned perfectly with the line. The others hovered at its edges, watching.
But as soon as the aligned face began to speak, its expression shifted. A hesitation crept in, drawn from another reflection. The answer bent, subtly but decisively.
The line in the dust smudged itself.
“Are they interfering?” Liora asked.
“No,” the woman said. “They are constituting.”
Liora stepped back. From a distance, the mirror looked simple again. One surface. One promise.
Up close, it was clear the promise had always been conditional.
“What happens if I insist?” Liora asked.
“You’ll get contradiction,” said the woman. “Or silence. Or a mirror that cracks without breaking.”
Liora considered this. Then she smiled.
She did not choose again.
Instead, she addressed the mirror as a whole.
The answers that came were slower, less tidy—but they no longer collided. Meaning emerged not from a single face, but from their mutual adjustment.
As Liora turned to leave, she caught one last glimpse of the mirror.
For an instant, it showed only one face.
Then she moved.
And it did not.
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