Surrelics: A Mirror in Smoke

"She stood at the window, her figure traced faintly in the dim pane, not by light, but by the shifting smoke of incense rising behind her.

Outside, the streets blurred under rain, the city folding into itself. She did not wipe the glass or turn away.

Her reflection hovered between worlds—neither fully inside nor out—gathering stillness like a secret. The scent of sandalwood clung to her silence."

— Clarice Lispector, (from The Hour Of The Star)