She wasn’t at all surprised when her dreams were full of images, broken mirrors, the pieces flying through the air, or crystal dust swirling about and taking on shapes she could never clearly identify before they swirled back into dust clouds and dust devils. She woke up several times, feeling as if she had been yanked out of the dream just a few heartbeats before an image succeeded in solidifying in her mind. Some time shortly before dawn, she fell into a deeper, more solid, yet no more restful sleep and dreamed of a mirror formed of the crystal dust. It swirled in a flat whirlpool, yet even as it retained its shimmering, granular texture, somehow she could see herself in it. Behind her, other images spun and bounced from one side of the invisible frame to the other.
The mirror shattered and she cut her hand on a massive shard of it that exploded into dust and reformed into the mirror. Several drops of blood from her cut hand fell into the center of the spinning dust surface, and it turned smooth and glistening as pure glass. Ess gasped as her parents appeared in the new, smooth, liquid surface. They smiled and spoke to her, but she couldn’t hear their voices.
She was waking. She knew she was waking, and knew that fighting to stay asleep, stay dreaming, would only wake her more. She absolutely hated that sensation.
Focus on the dream, think about it, not sleep, she scolded herself.
She saw her parents in the dream. They were looking at her, but outside the mirror. The dreamer. Her parents could see her.
Did the mirror allow her to speak to the dead?
Somehow that felt wrong. She had no time to think about the theological implications, but Ess was fairly positive that God didn’t permit communication between Heaven and Earth. She knew her parents were in Heaven. The fact that she didn’t see her grandparents in the mirror was some comfort.
Not that she could use that as proof that Matilda and Ernest weren’t dead. Yet.