There was an old mirror that stood in a palatial, airy hallway. It was contained within what used to be an opulent estate, now minimized to ruins that echo too much when you walk its corridors. 

After pacing the balconies, I finally came to the mirror. Moths, Winchester grey in shade, napped upon its surface. They began to stir and flutter as the echoes of my steps interrupted their sumptuous slumber.

I inhaled deeply, and looked into the cheval glass, encased by fleur de lis applique. White paint chipped, betraying the manifold colors that the cursed mirror used to display. Aegean, cadmium, muslin birch. The final strokes to each layer looking so final and certain, only to be repainted once more, time and time again. 

The glass itself, dirty with finger smudges, aged beyond its surprisingly short years. It had been passed by so many times, witnessed so much. A birthday party, a quiet promise, a laughing company, a begging sob. 

It had a crack in the lower right corner from when that quiet promise had been broken, then sealed with glue to keep the crack from spreading. A single finger smear of blood adorned the upper left quadrant of the mirror, browned by oxidation. 

The remnant laughter of the assemblage was still heard throughout the hall where the mirror stood, a laborious sound that was sometimes mistaken for grieving. 

I looked into that mirror, 

and I saw nothing, 

but the mirror looked back at me.