Late autumn at Coyote Lake. I met a man named Ezra who runs the boat rental. He told me about a mirror he found at the edge of the treeline — a full-length mirror leaning against a pine. When he carried it home, the reflection showed a different time: the sky wrong, his dead wife smiling in a blue dress. He kept it, talked to her, watched his younger self. Then he smashed it with a rock and buried the shards. But at dusk, he still sees glints of light from that spot. As I walked away, I glanced back at him sitting by the lake, and his reflection in the still water was standing, facing the treeline. I didn't look again.

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