Grasped in her hand was a looking glass, a tale waiting to be unraveled.

Long fingers curled around it’s handle etched with birds and leaves, holding tighter than they seemed to be.

She stroked the glass with her fingertips, longing to disappear within its surface.

She closed her eyes slowly, as though afraid of damaging her lashes if she blinked too quickly.

Her lips, although curvaceous and tinged pink, were chapped and had lost their beauty through a lifetime of fighting bitter fights.

Her hands, although long fingered and desirable, were dry and uncomfortable to their owner, making it even more a miserable affair to whoever had to shake them.

Her overall splendour was masked with obvious depravation of care, in a way portraying her as an item that was past its use by date.

The woman’s eyes traced the shape of the mirror with ease, gliding along it with a gentle tenderness.

With one last sigh she muttered a few words that seemed to drain her energy by saying them.

Her hand’s grip grew limp, and with a final gaze into the looking glasses reflection, she slumped to the ground and drifted off.

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