viii.
the corridor opens, without warning, into a room with a mirror in it. the mirror is older than the building has any right to be — long oval, faintly silvered, leaned a little forward, the way a mirror leans when it has been listened to.
you stand in front of it. there you are. the procession has brought you to this version of yourself, and the mirror has the small honesty of returning it without comment. nothing is added; nothing is subtracted. you are not flattering and not flattered. you are merely shown.
this is the room of choosing what to keep. it does not ask out loud. it asks by being present. you stand long enough to notice which parts of yourself you have been carrying out of habit, and which you have been carrying because they are yours. the difference is smaller than you thought.
you do not need to throw anything away here. the mirror is not a confession. it is a tally — a calm one, taken by someone who already knows the figures and is patient enough to let you read them in your own time.
there is a small smudge low on the glass, where someone, once, rested a forehead. you do not wipe it. it is part of the mirror now. the building keeps every mark a visitor leaves; this is its quiet collection. you may have left one yourself, somewhere on the lower curve, the last time you came through. you do not check.
when you step back, your reflection does not linger behind. it goes with you, faithfully, the way a reflection should. you have decided, without announcing it, what to keep. the mirror approves by saying nothing.