By Kris Faatz

The face in the mirror was mine, once, but it isn’t now. Where are the crows’-feet, the faded grace? This girl is lovelier then I remember, but her eyes are full of ghosts.

In the glass, I see the weight she drags. Whispers and hisses bind her limbs and stop her mouth. Shameful. Waste of space. Burden.

My strong old fist shatters the mirror. I step through the empty frame with a brilliant shard in my unscathed hand. 

Don’t you listen, child. That’s nothing but lies.

With the fragment of glass, I cut her free of her shadows: one stroke, then another. Her wide eyes stay on my face. 

I toss the glass away. My hand closes around hers. She catches her breath, and in the next heartbeat, she dissolves into my body like quicksilver. Her youth sparkles along my veins.

“Come, my girl.” I say it aloud, in the wide-open silence. “It’s time to take you home.” 

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Kris Faatz (rhymes with skates) is a pianist and award-winning writer. Her short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in journals including South 85 and Bewildering Stories. Her third novel, Line Magic, was shortlisted for the Santa Fe Writers Project’s 2023 literary awards and released in 2025 by Highlander Press. Kris and her husband serve as staff to three cats and enjoy hiking and outdoor exploration. Visit her online at krisfaatz.com.