The mirror doesn’t wait.

It gathers whatever the morning leaves behind—

a stripe of sun sliding across its edge,
dust lifting like tiny lanterns
before drifting back down.

A sleeve passes,
and the glass brightens for a heartbeat,
then dims again,
holding only the faint warmth
of something that moved on.

Across the room,
a door sighs shut.
The sound ripples through the silver
and fades,
like a stone skipping once
and sinking without protest.

The mirror keeps its stillness.
A smudge blooms near the corner,
soft, uncertain,
as if made by someone
who wasn’t sure they were there.

Outside, a branch taps—
not a knock,
just a rhythm the wind forgets to finish.
The glass shivers,
rearranging the shapes it holds
before settling again
into a quiet
that doesn’t ask for attention.

And in that quiet,
light expands,
thins,
returns—
a silent rehearsal
for something that never arrives.