A blot. A blemish. I searched in vain for some visible scar, some defect of design, a cause rather than effect, because the effect - the image staring back at me - was beyond unrecognizable.

That’s not the whole truth, though. Not really. What I saw was in fact familiar, although I couldn’t have known how then. Familiar like deja vu - a fearsome sense that things don’t belong here, not like this, not in this space. A hint of something buried, taking form among the walkers.

The things we hold most dear. The apple pulling on its limb. The breeze vining its way through a shade. The laughter among friends and the clumsy footsteps of young children. All of it filling the stage upon which we act; day after day, a diorama for living.

It’s a consolation, for sure.

But upon reflection, it’s not all. It’s what is projected, but not seen. A film playing to an empty theater.

There are other stories for telling. Here is one. Every mirror a confrontation, an accusation. Do you recognize anything here? This stain won’t wash.