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.
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