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It was early May. Winter had almost completely melted away, the only remnants of the particularly harsh season were the patches of dead garden that had yet to grow back. The lawn itself, however, was in full bloom, attracting the copious amounts of songbirds that had come back up North during their spring migration.

I was sitting on my porch, admiring the dark yellow feathers of the orioles as they quickly scooped up the birdseed I had scattered about when I heard the phone ring from inside.

Pesky telemarketers.

I stood up from my chair, the imprint of myself on the cushion almost immediately vanishing. I picked up my now warmed glass of water and took a final sip before heading inside to discover who beckons me. The ring of the telephone clanged much louder once I stepped into the kitchen. The worn blue landline looked as if it was practically shaking, moments away from dropping to the floor.

I grabbed the phone before such a thing could happen.

“Hello,” I grunted, hoping my soured greeting would drive away whomever was on the other line.

A quick silence and then-

“Ah, Norman! I knew I could rely on you to pick your brain!”

It was Hough. Fourth time in a week.

“I was hoping you could help me out. Big project, gonna change everything.”

This wasn’t the first I heard those exact words. In fact, earlier this week on Tuesday, Hough exclaimed this verbatim.

“I really can’t.” I started, hoping he would just drop it and move on. But I should know better.

“Oh come on, Norman! This is huge! I know deep down you want to be a part of this!”

I wasn’t sure I had a ‘deep down’. And if I were to not be sure of myself, how could Hough know?

I didn’t reply. Hough’s excited breath on the other line filled the empty space. He seemed sure I would say something. I did not. I sighed and hung up the phone back on the wall. But the second I did, the moment I heard the ‘click’ of the phone reattach itself to the switch hook- a knock sounded at my door.

It was rushed, a quick two beats, almost too quiet to hear if I would be in my upstairs bedroom. It was as if the hand of the person that knocked didn’t want to be known to me. I turned to face my front door, a short twenty feet from where my landline attached itself to the wall.

No one ever comes around. I thought to myself. Did the telemarketers upgrade to door to door visits? Leaving their stupid campaigns at the foot of people’s homes? I would call the city to complain. I did not care much to bring myself at the center of attention but this- this was a worthwhile matter.

I walked the short distance over to my door and began unlocking it, deadbolt first. Before answering the question of ‘who’ and ‘what’, I peered through the tiny hole in the center of the door to get a sneak peek of what is to come. Nothing there for my eye to see. I quickly sighed and turned the knob to open the door and still again, nothing in my line of vision. Until, I looked down.

It was a box, about the size of a footstool, perfectly centered on my stained doormat. Nothing particular about this box, however, just plain, brown. Yet, it seemed to be in almost perfect condition. As if the box was bought new and packaged right here on my front door step. No tears, stains or indications of a rough shipment. I looked back up to view the street- to observe for any odd cars or people lurking about. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I looked back down at the box, questioning my next move. I did not request for anything to be sent to my house. I hadn’t left this place in weeks. Was it Hough? Was his desperate attempt at recruiting me for his ‘projects’ over the phone not enough? Maybe he had thought to send me something to motivate me to finally join him? Or maybe it was the telemarketers. Those pesky telemarketers.

I bit the bullet and picked up the strange box. It was fairly light. I went to look around at the street once more to see if I could catch the person who left this here for me, but to my avail, I did not see a thing. I quickly closed the door and locked myself inside once more, clasping the box under my left arm.

Maybe I just toss it.

Did I want to see what lies inside this mysterious gift? I don’t know. I never was sure of much. Yet, there was something outside of myself that pulled at me to open it. As if the answer to everything lies right here in this plain, unmarked box. I quickly walked back over to my kitchen and reached for the nearest knife, hoping its blade was sharp enough to pierce the tape that bound the sides of the box together. It was. In fact, it glided right through, giving me easy access to whatever was inside.

I hesitated. Did I really need what was lying inside?

No.

But yet, that force of something unknown led my right hand to reach inside and feel around for what this mystery was. It was cold at first contact. And fairly small. I grabbed it, wrapping my hand around its edge and pulled it up and out to finally reveal its identity.

It was a frame. Nor, a mirror? The center of it was covered with a dark plastic sticker. The edges that surrounded the center were silver, with a gold colored line that framed the entire object. It was simple- nothing extravagant.

What in god’s name- I thought, scratching my chin. This must be a joke. Or was it some elaborate scheme Hough thought of to try and get to me to finally join him? But why, this? For what, even is this?

I focused my attention back on the center of the framed object. The dark sticker covering what lies underneath. Perhaps I peel it back and the answer is there- surely? I take the top of the sticker underneath my fingernails to begin to take it off, and as I do so, the ceiling reflects itself onto the object.

A mirror?

I quickly rip the rest of the concealment off and yes, it’s a mirror. A small, plain, mirror. It was lying flat on my hand, my kitchen ceiling revealing itself in its reflection.

What does this mean?

I go to hold up the mirror closer to my eyes, maybe a hidden message lies in the reflection. But as I do so, expecting my face to appear, I see the front door that stands behind me. Startled, I almost dropped the damn thing but caught myself as I do not like sweeping broken glass. Moving the mirror around my face to try and catch a glimpse- I see nothing but my home from different angles.

This must be some trick. I thought. This was nothing more than some marketing tactic by the telemarketers- or maybe it was Hough. He is probably sitting at home, laughing uncontrollably at the thought of me looking at this mirror, confused. He thinks I am going to call him up, ask him ‘why a mirror’ and his answer will prompt me to go over there and help him in order to figure out the meaning of this unexpected package.

I am not going to do that. But, yet, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. Still holding the mirror, I look at myself again, or, expect to see myself in the reflection of the glass, and still, there is nothing but my walls. I set the mirror down on my kitchen countertop, stepping away from it quickly as if it was going to suck me up inside.

I am just going to toss it. There is no use for this silly thing. No matter who sent it, it was invaluable. I did not need a mirror, I had plenty! Let alone a mirror that does not even show my own reflection.

I laugh. Nothing was funny, though. This is all just stupid nonsense. I shake my head and walk past the mirror lying flat on the counter and grab another glass out of the cupboard. Filling my cup up with cold water to replace my now warmed glass outside, I glance up at the wall above the sink. A clock, a hook for pot warmers and a small, circular mirror. All gifts from- oh who gave me these to put up? I don’t remember.

As I search my brain, I notice an oriole flying across in the circle mirror. I turned around to face the window, but it had already gone. Turning back around, my eyes are set on the mirror again, however, I still see nothing but the window behind me. The mirror should be reflecting my chin and upper torso, seeing where it was positioned at. I duck down to try and find my eyes, but alas! The window! I dropped the glass that had now overfilled in the sink, thankfully not breaking it.

What is happening? I step back, my breath now short and my palms sweaty. I look around at my home, not sure of what to do. I feel frozen.

Surely mirrors can’t break like that? I thought, shaking my head at how stupid I sound. But maybe I was right.

The bathroom. The largest mirror in the house. That one had to still be intact. I couldn’t quite recall the last time I had looked at myself in that reflection. I raced to the bathroom that sat across the living room and flipped on the lightswitch.

But I was not there. All I could see was the singular towel on its hook that was behind me. There was not an ounce of myself, not an atom of my being that was reflected in this mirror. I gasp, to my surprise. I could feel my forehead begin to sweat, but I could not see it to wipe it away.

Have I gone mad? I begin to spiral. I touch my warm hands to my face and still feel my physical self there but why can I not see myself?

This is because of that mystery mirror. I sounded delusional. I angrily flipped the lightswitch off and stormed back to the kitchen to fetch the wretched thing but- it was not there.

I was gone for two minutes! I don’t let others come inside, the birds can’t move mirrors. I look around the kitchen, the dining area- no where. Until, I glanced out the window that faced the yard and lo and behold, there it was. Lying flat like I left it, however it was on the small outdoor table that I was sitting at just a while ago.

I feel my heart skip a beat. I did not believe in hauntings or possessions but this was testing me. I go to open the door that leads to the porch, the sun beating down on my back the moment I step back outside. I pick up the mirror and hold it up, hoping I could try and regain my sight, but there was nothing but the reflection of what stood behind me.

Why am I invisible? I could see my own hands, my own body through my eyes but the mirrors have erased my existence.

The crowd of orioles were still busy- picking the ground with their beaks to try and salvage what was left of the birdseed. I watch them briefly before holding the mirror up to the sky, to the roof of the house, to try and decipher any sort of meaning. And that was when I noticed. There were no orioles in the mirror. Despite me holding the mirror above where my head should be, and the orioles in plain sight behind me, they, like me, were just gone.

I shake the mirror around, becoming more agitated by the minute. Nothing made sense- not like anything ever really made sense to me at all. As I become obsessed with looking at the yard’s reflection, I see that not only are the orioles gone- the birdseed is gone, and the grass is dead. The trees seem to look deceased as well, and despite the winds being slightly elevated today, not a branch was moving.

It was as if the world was stopped in the mirror. Like it was stuck in time and existed in a place where I was not there.

I began to shake, the mirror in my hand barely holding on, slipping through my hands until it dropped. But it did not hit the concrete. It vanished into thin air. I looked around, more scared than confused. In fact, I was mortified. I put both hands on my head, pacing the concrete slab that I called a porch. How could that have happened? Where did it go?

Maybe it found another place, like it did just moments ago leaving my kitchen for my patio. I glance at the yard but see nothing, the orioles still scattered about, but far less now. I rush back inside and scan the kitchen, the living room, the dining area.

The dining area. There it was. Lying flat, once again, but this time it rested atop the pile of mail I had let collect dust for god knows how long. I quickly walk over to it, picking it up, my reflection still missing. But this time, my attention draws to the mail.

I had forgotten about that pile. It was dirty and old. I could not even remember the last time I received anything, until today. I set the mirror down and picked up a couple of the pieces atop the mound.

An ad for discounted poultry at the grocery store.

Bills, past due, for my gas. I can’t remember the last time I cooked on the stove.

A postcard Hough sent eons ago from his trip to Bermuda.

Why was the mirror atop my mail? To remind me to throw it out?

Is it trying to tell me something?

I began to feel a sort of emptiness creep up on me. The image of the beach on the postcard stood out to me. I had never been to the beach. I had not been anywhere, in fact.

“Greetings from Bermuda, Love, James Hough.” Hough always signed things, “love.” What did that even mean? How could he be so sure enough to write ‘love’? I was never sure of anything.

Who even am I? It was as if the question was popped into my head by that same push that existed outside of me.

I looked back at the pile of mail- at the bills, at the grocery ad, the faded postcard from Bermuda- and it all felt strangely foreign, like artifacts from a life I had only heard about. A life someone else had lived while I stayed here, slowly dissolving into the walls.

The orioles chirped outside again, louder this time. Almost demanding. I walked towards the window and watched them hop around the yard, their yellow feathers flickering. They were still here. The birds, the yard, the house. All of it persisted, whether I took part in it or not.

Maybe that was the problem.

I turned back toward the dining table where the mirror lay. It hadn’t moved this time. It waited. The frame looked colder now, as if it had been sitting outdoors all winter.

I picked it up.

“Show me,” I whispered, not sure what I meant, or who I was asking.

The glass reflected nothing of me- not my face, not my hands, not even a shadow. I clenched the mirror harder, feeling its weight settle into my palm in a way it hadn’t before. This time, though, it did not show a frozen world. No dead grass, or empty trees. It showed my yard exactly as it was- unchanged, utterly ordinary.

The only thing missing was me. I sat, still confused for a moment but it hit me. It was never that the mirror refused to show me.

It showed me exactly what I had become.

For a moment, I expected panic to rise again. But instead, I felt something quieter. A small, almost tender ache. The kind you feel when you finally realize how long you’ve been gone without ever leaving.

I lowered the mirror and turned to face the window behind me. The orioles fluttered up in the air, startled by nothing I could see. Their wings cut through the sky like strokes of paint, bright and living.