Chapter Two – The Mirror of Mercy
I saw her long before she noticed me.Not with the eyes of the body—that vision is too easily fooled—but with the sight that pierces through flesh and smiles into what dwells beneath.
Her steps were sharp, hurried, always angled toward advantage. At the market she laughed with the merchants, but her hand slipped fruit into her shawl when their gaze turned elsewhere. A lie here, a curse there, spoken so smoothly that the truth seemed the intrusion. She wore deceit like a second skin, and the world did not protest.
The child trailed behind her, thin arms clutching a basket that should have been hers to carry. His eyes were wide, watchful, always bracing for the sting of her temper. When he stumbled, she struck him—not hard enough to leave him on the ground, but sharp enough to remind him who owned his small body. The aura around him trembled like a candle in the wind.
Her own aura was thicker, tangled in knots of envy and hunger. I smelled the residue of nights spent with strangers, of words spoken to wound, of choices that corroded the heart with each passing day. Yet—Beneath it all, almost too faint to name, there was light.
Not the blaze of a saint nor the fire of the righteous. Just a spark, pale and flickering, buried under layers of darkness she had built with her own hands. But it was there. It had not gone out.
That was why I followed her.
Through the alleys, through the noise of the tavern doors swinging open, through the hush of her home where shadows clung to the corners like conspirators. I walked in silence, not to condemn, but to see if she would face the mirror when I held it before her.
For that is all I am. A mirror. A door. A witness to the choice that cannot be hidden.
She did not see me at first. To her, I was just another passerby, a shadow among many. That suited me. I walked near enough to hear the cadence of her voice, to feel the tremor of her lies as they left her tongue.
At a stall she pressed her hand to her heart, swearing she had no coin, swearing the bread was for her hungry child. The merchant, softened by pity, cut the loaf in half and handed it over. She smiled, thanked him sweetly—then, when he turned, snatched the other half and stuffed it into her shawl.
I stood nearby, my gaze resting on the child's thin shoulders. His eyes flickered toward me for an instant—hesitant, searching—as though he sensed I was not what I appeared. Then his mother barked his name, and he shrank back into silence.
Later, at the tavern door, she leaned against the frame, laughter spilling from her lips like honey soured with vinegar. She pressed her hand against a man's chest, whispering promises, while her other hand slipped into his cloak and drew out a coin pouch. When she returned to the table, she cursed him under her breath, as though his foolishness were the crime and not her theft.
I caught her eyes then. Just for a moment. She faltered, as though my gaze had caught a thread inside her and tugged. She recovered quickly, scowling, muttering to herself, "What are you staring at?"
I did not answer. Not yet.
In the evening, as the lamps were lit and the streets grew quiet, I passed her in the alley near her home. She clutched her child's arm too tightly, dragging him after her. His basket spilled an apple, which rolled toward me. I bent, picked it up, and held it out to her.
"You dropped this," I said.
Her eyes narrowed. "Mind your business." She snatched it from my hand.
But I could feel her unease. My words, my stillness, unsettled her in ways she could not explain. I had not judged her. I had only looked, and already her mask had cracked.
I let her pass, following at a distance. My role was not to accuse. It was to wait, to hold the mirror when the time came, and to let her heart decide whether to embrace the spark within—or feed the darkness that clung to her like a cloak.
She saw me again the next day. Not by chance—nothing ever is—but she thought it was.
I was standing near the fountain, watching the way water caught the fading light, when her eyes found me. Recognition sharpened her face. For a breath her mask slipped—then she smiled, too sweet, too sudden.
A mark. That's what she saw.
She drifted close, hips swaying, voice honeyed with false warmth. "You look like a man who has coin, stranger. Alone too, aren't you? Dangerous to wander without company in these streets."
Her hand brushed against my sleeve, lingering as though by accident, her eyes bright with calculation.
I met her gaze without flinching. "And you," I said quietly, "look like a woman who is never alone, even when she wishes she were."
She blinked, the smile faltering. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," I replied, letting the word rest between us like a mirror placed upon a table.
She tried again, leaning closer, whispering of fortunes and favors. But each time her tongue reached for deceit, I answered with words that only reflected her back to herself—gentle, uncondemning, yet unyielding.
When she lied about her child's father, I asked, "Is that the truth, or only what you've told yourself so often it feels real?"When she mocked those poorer than her, I said, "Strange, how much you sound like those who once mocked you."
Her breath hitched, eyes narrowing. "You don't know me."
But she knew I did. Not with names and histories, but with the weight of what clung to her soul.
I did not press. I did not accuse. I only let her see herself in my words, like a reflection in still water she could not escape.
And though she laughed bitterly and pulled away, I felt the spark in her flicker—struggling, wrestling, aching for air.
Part IV: The Choice
He offers his hand, not with judgment but with invitation.
"If it is your wish, your heart's desire will be granted."
And for the first time, her lips falter. Her heart's true cry spills out—not for power, not for deception, but for freedom. A fresh start. To be saved from herself.
Her aura quakes. The spark ignites. Light rushes in like dawn breaking over a wasteland. Her knees buckle, tears fall, and she collapses into her own truth. The shadows release her, shrinking back, consumed by the blaze of new mercy.
I saw her long before she noticed me.Not with the eyes of the body—that vision is too easily fooled—but with the sight that pierces through flesh and smiles into what dwells beneath.
Her steps were sharp, hurried, always angled toward advantage. At the market she laughed with the merchants, but her hand slipped fruit into her shawl when their gaze turned elsewhere. A lie here, a curse there, spoken so smoothly that the truth seemed the intrusion. She wore deceit like a second skin, and the world did not protest.
The child trailed behind her, thin arms clutching a basket that should have been hers to carry. His eyes were wide, watchful, always bracing for the sting of her temper. When he stumbled, she struck him—not hard enough to leave him on the ground, but sharp enough to remind him who owned his small body. The aura around him trembled like a candle in the wind.
Her own aura was thicker, tangled in knots of envy and hunger. I smelled the residue of nights spent with strangers, of words spoken to wound, of choices that corroded the heart with each passing day. Yet—Beneath it all, almost too faint to name, there was light.
Not the blaze of a saint nor the fire of the righteous. Just a spark, pale and flickering, buried under layers of darkness she had built with her own hands. But it was there. It had not gone out.
That was why I followed her.
Through the alleys, through the noise of the tavern doors swinging open, through the hush of her home where shadows clung to the corners like conspirators. I walked in silence, not to condemn, but to see if she would face the mirror when I held it before her.
For that is all I am. A mirror. A door. A witness to the choice that cannot be hidden.
She did not see me at first. To her, I was just another passerby, a shadow among many. That suited me. I walked near enough to hear the cadence of her voice, to feel the tremor of her lies as they left her tongue.
At a stall she pressed her hand to her heart, swearing she had no coin, swearing the bread was for her hungry child. The merchant, softened by pity, cut the loaf in half and handed it over. She smiled, thanked him sweetly—then, when he turned, snatched the other half and stuffed it into her shawl.
I stood nearby, my gaze resting on the child's thin shoulders. His eyes flickered toward me for an instant—hesitant, searching—as though he sensed I was not what I appeared. Then his mother barked his name, and he shrank back into silence.
Later, at the tavern door, she leaned against the frame, laughter spilling from her lips like honey soured with vinegar. She pressed her hand against a man's chest, whispering promises, while her other hand slipped into his cloak and drew out a coin pouch. When she returned to the table, she cursed him under her breath, as though his foolishness were the crime and not her theft.
I caught her eyes then. Just for a moment. She faltered, as though my gaze had caught a thread inside her and tugged. She recovered quickly, scowling, muttering to herself, "What are you staring at?"
I did not answer. Not yet.
In the evening, as the lamps were lit and the streets grew quiet, I passed her in the alley near her home. She clutched her child's arm too tightly, dragging him after her. His basket spilled an apple, which rolled toward me. I bent, picked it up, and held it out to her.
"You dropped this," I said.
Her eyes narrowed. "Mind your business." She snatched it from my hand.
But I could feel her unease. My words, my stillness, unsettled her in ways she could not explain. I had not judged her. I had only looked, and already her mask had cracked.
I let her pass, following at a distance. My role was not to accuse. It was to wait, to hold the mirror when the time came, and to let her heart decide whether to embrace the spark within—or feed the darkness that clung to her like a cloak.
She saw me again the next day. Not by chance—nothing ever is—but she thought it was.
I was standing near the fountain, watching the way water caught the fading light, when her eyes found me. Recognition sharpened her face. For a breath her mask slipped—then she smiled, too sweet, too sudden.
A mark. That's what she saw.
She drifted close, hips swaying, voice honeyed with false warmth. "You look like a man who has coin, stranger. Alone too, aren't you? Dangerous to wander without company in these streets."
Her hand brushed against my sleeve, lingering as though by accident, her eyes bright with calculation.
I met her gaze without flinching. "And you," I said quietly, "look like a woman who is never alone, even when she wishes she were."
She blinked, the smile faltering. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," I replied, letting the word rest between us like a mirror placed upon a table.
She tried again, leaning closer, whispering of fortunes and favors. But each time her tongue reached for deceit, I answered with words that only reflected her back to herself—gentle, uncondemning, yet unyielding.
When she lied about her child's father, I asked, "Is that the truth, or only what you've told yourself so often it feels real?"
When she mocked those poorer than her, I said, "Strange, how much you sound like those who once mocked you."
Her breath hitched, eyes narrowing. "You don't know me."
But she knew I did. Not with names and histories, but with the weight of what clung to her soul.
I did not press. I did not accuse. I only let her see herself in my words, like a reflection in still water she could not escape.
And though she laughed bitterly and pulled away, I felt the spark in her flicker—struggling, wrestling, aching for air.
Her home was a narrow place, walls stained with smoke and the sour scent of old wine. Shadows thickened in the corners like witnesses too weary to speak.
The child sat on the floor, small fingers clutching a wooden toy worn smooth by nervous hands. He knocked it once against the ground—softly, no louder than the creak of the beams. But it was enough.
Her fury exploded. She seized him by the arm, shaking him until the toy clattered away. "Useless!" she hissed, her voice jagged, raw. "Can't you do anything without ruining my peace?"
Her hand lifted, palm poised to strike.
And then I was there.
I did not step from the door or rise from the floorboards. I simply was—between her and the boy, her hand caught in mine before it fell.
Her breath froze. The child's wide eyes found mine, shimmering with both terror and desperate hope.
"Even now," I said, my voice low, steady, a thread of calm cutting through the storm, "you can turn."
She tried to pull away, but my grip was gentle and unyielding. Her eyes darted, wild, as though searching for the trick, the opening, the escape.
I let her see no anger in me, no judgment—only the mirror."You've lied," I said softly. "You've stolen. You've wounded those smaller than yourself. But beneath it all… there is still a spark."
Her lips parted, trembling, caught between rage and grief.
I opened my other hand, palm up, an invitation."If it is your wish—if it is truly your heart's desire—it will be granted. Not the mask. Not the lies. What your heart cries for in silence."
The room was silent, the air holding its breath. The boy pressed himself against the wall, trembling, but his gaze never left his mother.
The choice was hers. Always hers.
Her arm trembled in my grasp. For the first time, she seemed smaller than her own shadow.
The child's sobs had quieted, replaced by silence so heavy it pressed against the walls. Even the air waited.
I did not force her hand down. I did not speak again. I simply held the mirror open.
Her eyes darted wildly, then settled on me. "You think you know me," she spat, but the venom was thin, diluted by something breaking beneath.
"What I know," I said softly, "is what you carry. And what you may yet choose."
Her lips quivered. She looked at the boy—his face pale, streaked with tears, but his gaze fixed on her as though he still hoped. That look cut deeper than my words ever could.
The woman's shoulders shook. "All my life," she whispered, voice hoarse, "they took from me. Mocked me. Beat me. Left me with nothing but this." She clutched her chest, fingers clawing as though trying to rip out the ache within. "What else am I supposed to be? What else can I give?"
I opened my hand again, palm up, steady, unwavering. "Only what is already inside you. That spark. That faint cry for more. Feed it, and it will grow. Deny it, and it will die."
For a long, breaking moment, she hung there, caught between shadow and flame.
Then she reached out a trembling hand to mine. Tears—real ones this time, raw and unhidden—spilled down her cheeks. "I don't want to be this anymore," she breathed. "I want to change. I want to begin again."
Her words struck the air like flint against stone.
And the spark ignited.
At first, it was only a flicker in her chest, faint and trembling. But when I opened my hand, the spark bloomed. I felt it surge outward, amplified, magnified, until the walls themselves seemed to shudder beneath its force.
Light erupted.
Not gentle. Not quiet. Blinding brilliance burst through her skin, pouring from her eyes, her mouth, the cracks of her being. The shadows shrieked and fled, dissolving as if scalded. The very air burned white, as though a star had descended into that narrow room. I then let go of her hands.
The boy cried out, not in fear, but awe—his small hands clutching his mother as light enfolded them both. The stains on the walls faded, the sour air lifted, and the house that once reeked of sorrow now hummed with warmth.
She screamed, a cry torn between agony and rebirth, and I watched the old shell fall away—her rage, her deceit, her shame—burned to ash in the blaze.
When the brilliance finally ebbed, she knelt trembling, but changed. Her aura glowed like dawn after a long night. Her son nestled against her, safe in arms that now trembled with love instead of wrath.
I lowered my hand. "So be it."
Epilogue Reflection
I stepped into the street. Behind me, a home once filled with shadows now burned with the afterglow of light.
It is not my fire. It is theirs. I am only the mirror, the amplifier. I cannot choose for them. I only open the door, and what comes through depends on their heart.
Tonight, light won.
The night stretched before me, filled with countless souls, each carrying sparks buried in ash or embers smothered by smoke. Some will flare. Some will fall.
But I walk on, a witness to the threshold.