The mirror hung in the front hall where the morning light first arrived, a tall, old thing with a walnut frame worn smooth by decades of passing hands. Its glass held a faint silver waviness, as if the world within it were always remembering itself a moment late. Dust gathered politely along its top edge, disturbed each dawn by the sound of its voice.

“Ah,” the mirror proclaimed, its tone rich and rounded, like a storyteller settling into a good chair, “the day begins again, and with it, my tale resumes.”

Mrs. Harrow paused halfway through tying her boots. The hall smelled of leather, cold stone, and last night’s embers. She sighed, not looking up.

“Good morning to you too,” she said.

The mirror brightened, or seemed to, as her reflection sharpened. “You arrive once more upon the stage, Supporting Figure of Modest Importance,” it intoned. “Note how the light favors my left edge today. A clear omen.”

Mrs. Harrow frowned. “It’s just a mirror,” she muttered, tugging her laces tight.

“The mirror,” it corrected, with a hint of wounded dignity. “And mirrors do not merely reflect—they reveal. Now then, what trial shall you undertake? Errands? Ah yes. The Market Chapter. A dependable if uninspired arc.”

From the kitchen came the soft clatter of cups and the smell of steeping tea. Mr. Harrow leaned into the doorway, sleeves rolled, hair still damp from washing.

“It’s doing the voice again, isn’t it?” he asked.

“It never stops,” she replied.

The mirror’s surface shimmered faintly. “Hark! Another enters the scene. Secondary Supporting Figure, recurring. You have returned at a pivotal moment, though you do not yet know it.”

Mr. Harrow squinted at his reflection. “We really should have covered it.”

“You dare speak of concealment?” the mirror thundered. Its voice echoed off the stone walls, making the coat hooks tremble. “Would you shroud the sun? Muzzle the chronicler of fate?”

Mrs. Harrow grabbed her cloak. “I’m late,” she said. “Argue with it later.”

She opened the door, letting in a rush of cold air and the distant sound of carts on the road. The mirror watched her go, the glass dimming slightly as the hall grew quieter.

“Thus she departs,” it said solemnly, “unaware of the currents that carry her. As are they all.”

The day passed. Shadows crept along the floor, and the mirror filled the silence with commentary—on dust motes drifting like minor plot threads, on the noble perseverance of the umbrella stand, on the tragic neglect of the left boot that leaned forever against the wall.

When evening came, and with it Mrs. Harrow’s sister, the trouble truly began.

The sister was brisk, practical, and possessed of a voice that suggested decisions had already been made.

The mirror preened. “A new character appears! Welcome, Minor Antagonist—”

“Oh no,” the sister said. “Absolutely not.”

The mirror gasped. “Antagonist confirmed.”

“I mean the mirror,” she continued, ignoring it. “You can’t keep that here. It’s unsettling. Put it in the guest room.”

The word guest room fell like a curse.

The mirror went very still. Its voice, when it returned, was low and trembling with disbelief. “The… guest room?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Harrow said gently. “Just for now.”

“For now,” the mirror repeated. “Banished from the Grand Hall. Exiled from the Threshold of Beginnings. Reduced to reflecting spare coats and the occasional aunt.”

Mr. Harrow cleared his throat. “It’s only temporary.”

“Temporary,” the mirror echoed, louder now. “So was the Age of Heroes, until it wasn’t.”

They carried it together, the frame creaking faintly, the glass catching fragments of lamplight and ceiling beams as it passed. The mirror narrated every step.

“Behold,” it cried, “the unjust removal of the Protagonist! Mark this chapter well, for it shall be remembered as the Turning!”

The guest room was quiet and smelled faintly of lavender and old linen. A single lamp cast a small, polite circle of light. They set the mirror against the wall, opposite a neatly made bed.

The mirror looked at itself reflected dimly in the wardrobe’s polished door.

“This place,” it said hoarsely, “has no narrative weight.”

Mrs. Harrow patted the frame. “Good night,” she said.

The door closed. The latch clicked.

In the silence, the mirror gathered itself. Dust settled. The house creaked as it always did. Somewhere, pipes sighed.

“At last,” the mirror murmured, voice softer now, almost thoughtful. “The Lone Chapter. Exile refines the hero.”

It straightened its tone, practicing grandeur on the empty room.

“Yes,” it decided. “This, too, is part of the tale.”