Face

"This face," she whispered, sad and annoyed. "Just ... gah. This face." She saw more wrinkles, not less, and deeper shadows under the eyes to boot. "You were beautiful once," she said then, and a tear came to the fore. And the mirror, who had given up its obsession with youth and its tyranny of judgment long ago, sighed and clouded over. "I like your face very much," it said, "for it is yours and there is no other like it. Its beauty, unmatched and unchallenged, will never expire ... for there is only just the one of its kind. It is singular and worthy." She heard the whispers and mistook them for her own compassionate thoughts and was grateful, wiping her eyes and vowing to the clean the mirror as soon as she could.