The sky was a deep indigo, whispering echoes of a day that had slipped away just over the horizon. Michelle stood in front of the mirrored lake, her reflection seamlessly merging with the water. Her fingers brushed against the pendant at her neck; a small, round mirror encased in silver. It was her mother’s—an heirloom that was said to show the true self.

Beside her, Tom nursed a paper cup of coffee, his eyes distant, focused on the tremor of light where water met the evening. He was a man of few words, his presence more about the silence he carried than the conversations he contributed. “What do you see?” he asked, nodding towards the lake.

Michelle shifted, the hem of her summer dress rustling like a whisper. “A version of me that seems more honest,” she replied, her voice steady. “You ever wonder if the reflection is more real than what we show the world?”

Tom shrugged, taking a sip. “Not much room for pretending, I guess. It’s like Hemingway wrote—show the tip, the rest is under water.”

The evening air settled between them, heavy with unsaid truths and unspoken dreams. Michelle watched Tom, noting the way his hands curled around the cup, grounding him to this place, their moment. She admired his resolve, his simplicity—traits that seemed both comforting and elusive.

“Do you regret it?” she asked, suddenly. “Leaving everything behind?”

He paused, considering the question as though weighing it, feeling its heft. “No,” he said finally. “We all carry our prisons. Mine just needed new bars.”

Michelle nodded, letting his words sink in. There was an elegance in his candor, a softness that belied his hardened exterior. It was what she had always admired—his way of cutting through the layers of life with the precision of a sculptor revealing art from stone.

They stood in comforting silence, the world around them hushed, as if holding its breath. Her gaze returned to the round mirror at her throat, curious about the stories it held from generations past.

“How do you do it?” she asked, breaking the stillness as if unable to contain her curiosity any longer. “Accept the parts of yourself that are reflected back?”

Tom considered this, setting down his cup and turning to face her, all the weight of his Hemingway-esque resilience in his gaze. “You don’t,” he said. “You learn. Learn to live with what you see. It’s all bits and pieces—like glass from a broken window.”

Michelle smiled, bittersweet, acknowledging the wisdom in his words. Her eyes glistened, twin mirrors capturing the fading light. The tragedy of their youth, she realized, was in the relentless passage of time, in the acknowledgment that with every reflection, something was lost.

Darkness crept over the landscape, drawing curtains on their shared introspection. Still, neither moved, rooted in the moment, at peace with the inevitability of parting.

“We’ll find our way, Tom,” Michelle said, as if convincing herself as much as him. He nodded, knowing her hope was earnest but the truth stark—a mirror might reflect, but it cannot change what it shows.

And with that, an understanding settled between them—an acknowledgement of their illusions and dreams, captured in the symmetry of the round mirror’s eternal gaze. The night surrounded them, a silent witness to the reflections of their youth, tragic in their very essence.