THE FACE WOULD NOT DIVULGE a single thing. How long had he been staring at it? By the calendars of old, much time had passed. It varied little, every morning, every night, unblinking, meeting his glances unabashed and as opaque as a coat of paint. He was without a face, if this was not his face. The mirror has been mocking him all these years. An unreliable narrator, a merchant of doubt, he was never sure of its truth. It was a paradox, but his face wanted to hold the entire world while also sweeping itself away, and so we all wind up where we started sometimes.
Blankly staring.
He shook off these thoughts. The identity thing. Only one use, after all. There were more reliable ones for mirroring. Better to stick to the matter at hand. Peering into the glass, he frowned at himself and looked a little closer.
What’s that?
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