the house had once been magnificent. now it was a crumbling ruin. the roof had long since fallen. the windows were gone. tree roots had cracked the floor. ivy smothered the walls.

she walked inside, heedless of danger. and there she found the mirror.

it was huge, many-paned, covering most of one wall. somehow, while the rest of the house had fallen into ruin, the surface of the mirror remained unblemished. the frame, to which traces of gilt still clung, was intricately and delicately carved.

it was beautiful.

and then, in the mirror, she saw her reflection.

she crouched, scrabbling in the debris at her feet. her fingers closed on a broken corner of flagstone. with a scream of rage and grief she raised it above her head and made to throw it at the mirror.

at the last moment, she turned, and hurled the jagged piece of stone at the wall instead.

throwing one arm over her face to shut out the sight of the mirror, she turned and stumbled blindly from the ruin.

she came upon a dying fox.

it had been savaged by dogs. there was nothing she could do to save it. she brought it water and it drank from her cupped hands.

she lay beside it, one lost, hurt, wild creature lending comfort to another. it's whimpers ceased. they slept through the night and watched the dawn together, and as the sun rose, it died.

she rose, slung her shamisen across her shoulder, and walked away. at the crest of a hill, she paused. 'goodbye', she said. she did not look back.

alone again, she walked on.