The Hallway Mirror's Echo

The lobby tile is slate, worn smooth, and the air smells of old marble dust. A brass key rests in my palm, radiating a heat that sinks into the bone. I trace the teeth of the key against my thumb; it is heavy, the weight of a forgotten season. Across the way, a low bench holds a jade box. I look at the box, its lid unmarked, and my fingers want to brush the cool lacquer. The mirror opposite the concierge desk shifts. It does not reflect me, but the lobby twenty seconds ago: the concierge adjusting his tie, the steam rising from a porcelain cup on the ledge. The reflection’s steam is thicker, the porcelain cup a specific, chipped white. I lift the key, balancing its warmth against the cool jade of the box. The reflection smiles.