The Mirror. Every morning she was the first at the market. Her long, copper-coloured hair plaited and her scarlet, silk robe dancing around her legs. She bought all the things she needed and went home again, without saying a word. And when someone asked: “Shall we go to the theatre together, Shira?” or “What about walking in the forest, Shira?” she shook her head and answered with a gentle smile: “Sorry, no time.” And then she left, Silent Shira, back to her giant villa on the top of the hill. Edjec was a young man who made his living travelling about the country with his selfmade paintings. He never stayed long at one place. Suddenly he would say: “Inspiration’s gone!” and left. It was one of those mornings that he first saw Shira. She was walking the way she always walked, beginning with buying her fruit. Edjec, who stood in front of a flowerstand, with his drawings and paintings bound together, saw her passing and leaving the market. “Wow!” he said. “Who’s that beauty? “You mean Silent Shira?” the flowerseller asked, “Ah, she’s nice, isn’t she?" “She’s beautiful!” “Ay, ay, ay,” the flowerseller said, shaking his haid. “Forget it, lad. You may only look at her, she’s not for taking.” Edjec laughed. “Ah, come on, that’s nonsense! Or is she married?" “Was,” the flowerseller sighted, “He died.” “That’s sad,” Edjec answered. “How long ago?” “Don’t know,” the flowerseller shrugged his shoulders. “Must be a year ago or something. He was the thirth deceased in two years. Shira’s mother and brother died before.” “Oh,” Edjec was silent. “Were they sick?” “No, they were murdered” “Murdered? Who did it?” “Oh, please, stop asking!” the flowerseller said, a bit irritated. “Forget her, okay! Shira is not for taking.” “I love her! Come on, where is she living? I have to visit her!" “Nobody can say I didn’t warn you, lad. But okay...Do you see that house on the hill? There’s she living. But you’d better...” But Edjec had already left. The flowerseller followed him with his eyes, disapproving shaking his head. “Mrs Shira?” The woman who opened the door was the woman Edjec had seen at the market that morning. Silent Shira. “Who are you?” the woman asked. “I’m Edjec, I’m a painter. Can I come in?” “That depends... Where are you coming for?” “What if I said for you?” Shira did not move a muscle. She still stood in doorway, her hair hanging down in a plait. Behind her Edjec saw a dark passage with everywhere old paintings. “I saw you at the market this morning,” Edjec continued. “I...” “I know, I know,” Shira sighted. “Well, you can come in.” Edjec, a bit surprised, followed the young woman inside. Inside the house it was very dark, although it was a sunny day. Shira’s villa had not many windows, and the few she had were covered with dust and cobwebs. Edjec wondered how Shira could look so neat and nice living in this old, dusty house. He coughed. “Sorry for all this dirtiness,” Shira said. “My last cleaning womandied a half year ago.” A half year ago? Edjec asked himself. It seems like this house isn’t cleaned in a century! Shira entered a small room with red ceiling and walls. She sat down. “I know what they told you,” she said unawares. “I know what you think. You think I killed them.” “You killed who?” Edjec asked sheepish. He thought it was better if he played possum. “My husband, my mother, my brother, all my personnel.” Shira looked at him. “But it wasn’t me, I swear.” She paused a while. “But I know I’ll be the next.” “Where are you talking about? Is there a murder here?” Shira casted her eyes down. “A murder, a curse, what does it matter? I lived too long alone here.” She got up and took Edjec’s hand. “Come on, I’ll show you the house and your wing.” “My... my wing?” “You came here for me, didn’t you? Well, you can stay with me. I’ll give you your own wing.” “A room is enough, really” “Not in this house.” Shira smiled. “I have so many rooms, it would be very selfish if I only gave you one.” And so Edjec followed Shira, to the wing that was going to be his. Shira told him it once belonged to her husband. “I haven’t been here since his death,” she said, “Everything that once belonged to him is still here. But I hope you don’t care.” Shira showed him room after room, opened and closed doors. All rooms were lovely, although most of them were filled with dust. At last Shira showed Edjec his bedroom, a wide, high apartment and, in contrast with the rest of the house, filled with sunlight. A giant bed, much too big for him alone, was in one of the corners. Shira looked at Edjec, his eyes were larger than his mouth and he couldn’t say a word. “One more room,” Shira said and walked to a little door. “The bathroom.” “Ahh, that’s what I want!” Edjec laughed. “A bath!” “It’s all yours!” Shira answered. “I’ll leave you alone now, but if you need me, I’m in the west-wing. There are my rooms.” Edjec kept his eyes closed for more than half an hour. Lying in the bath he thought about the things that happened to him. It was unbelievable, he, the painter as poor as a churchmouse, got in an hour his own wing. Not one room, but a whole wing! And right now he took in his own bath in his bathroom, or, at least, his bathroom for a few days. Edjec opened his eyes and looked about one. The bathroom was very big, with cream-coloured walls and ceiling. It looked very fine... except one detail. A round, black thing on one of the walls. It seemed like a round painting. Edjec looked again at it. What could it be? Perhaps if he looked closer... Edjec got out the bath and walked to the black thing. He touched it, it had a smooth surface. Edjec was very curious now and he tried to move the thing. He pulled and pushed and then... he hold it in his hands. It was a mirror, not a very big one. Edjec turned the mirror and saw himself with his wet hair. Putting up the mirror again, Edjec wondered why it had been hang back to front. Perhaps Shira’s husband was not very handsome, he thought laughing, putting on his clothes again. Edjec left the bathroom. He gaped and felt his fatigue... The bed... Sleep... sleep... He waked up when he heard screaming. Quick Edjec left the bedroom, following the continual, desperate screaming. Was it Shira? Edjec ran up a staircase, turned left, right... From the end of a passage he saw Shira approaching him. She was running too. “Edjec!” She shouted from far. “Edjec!” “Shira!” When she was near, he saw what happened. Shira’s long, copper-coloured hair was cut off. The remaining strings hung down untidy on to her shoulders. In one of her hands Shira hold her cut-off plait. “Shira? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” “No, no, I’m okay,” Shira recovered her breath. “How...?” Edjec pointed to the plait. “You did it yourself?” It was silent for a while. “Someone did it,” Shira answered then. “But I’m okay. Go back to sleep” Edjec, very surprised, turned around. Very low he heard Shira whispering: “It’s back, it’s back...”, but when he looked backwards, she was gone. Edjec went back to his wing, but he couldn’t sleep anymore. All the time he saw Shira with her plait in her hand. Someone had cut it off, but who? Edjec walked to the bathroom to drink some water. He looked in the mirror. He looked as he felt: tired out and and puzzled. And then he saw something, next to the tap. It was a pair of scissors. Edjec couldn’t remember that he put scissors down here. He hadn’t used them. But when he took it he saw that there were some locks of hair stuck to it. Copper-coloured hair. After he waked up that morning Edjec first went to the bathroom. The scissors were gone. In it’s place Edjec saw that there was something else next to the tap. It was a knife... red of blood. And when he looked in the mirror, he saw that it was full of bloodstains too. He even didn’t go back for his paintings. All the way down the way he ran, not looking back. The grass felt cold under his bare feet, but Edjec didn’t care. He ran until his fatigue made him stop. The villa and the town were out of sight when Edjec fell down, gasping. The fifth deceased they found three days later. The young man was lying in the grass at full length and in the gaping wound in his back they found a knife. Nobody knew him. It was only the old flowerseller, everyone knew he was completely lunatic, who asserted that he knew the boy. by Samara Jalaya.