The Lag

Mei returned the next day. And the day after.

She sat on a stool in the corner of the shop while Wei worked. She talked to fill the silence, her voice brittle. She talked about the industry, the pressure, the young starlets nipping at her heels.

"They look at me like I'm expiring," Mei said, staring at her hands. "I'm twenty-seven, Wei. In Hollywood, that's geriatric."

"You're young," Wei grunted, applying a layer of gold lacquer to the mirror frame.

"I feel old. And... dirty." She rubbed her fingertips together. "No matter how much I scrub, there's dirt under my nails. Grave dirt. It smells like earth."

Wei paused. He glanced at her hands. They were manicured, perfect. But under the rim of her fingernails, there was a faint, dark line.

"Stop looking in mirrors," Wei warned.

"I try," she said. "But I catch myself. In shop windows. In spoons. And every time... she looks better than me."

"She?"

"The reflection. She glows, Wei. She doesn't look tired. She doesn't look sad." Mei looked up at him, her eyes pleading. "Do you remember when you used to look at me like that? Like I was the only thing in the world?"

"I remember," Wei said. "I also remember you leaving."

"I was a coward," Mei admitted. "I still am. But I'm trying to fix it. That's why I brought the mirror to you. Maybe... maybe if you fix the mirror, you fix us."

"We aren't an antique, Mei. We can't be glued back together."

"Can't we?" She stood up and walked to the workbench. She reached out, her hand hovering near his masked face. "Show me. Please. I haven't seen you in five years. Let me see the reality. I'm tired of the pretty lies."

Wei froze. Every instinct screamed at him to run. To hide.

But the desperation in her voice stopped him. She was drowning.

Slowly, Wei reached up. He pulled the mask down.

The left side of his face was a map of violence. The skin was mottled, red and purple, pulled tight against the bone. The ear was gone, replaced by a knot of scar tissue. His lip was twisted, exposing teeth.

He waited for the flinch. He waited for her to run.

Mei didn't run. She inhaled sharply, her eyes filling with tears. She reached out and touched the scar on his cheek. Her fingers were cool.

"It looks... painful," she whispered.

"It was," Wei said.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there to hold your hand."

"You're here now."

For a moment, the air in the shop changed. The smell of turpentine faded, replaced by the scent of rain and jasmine. The tension of the "ugly" and the "perfect" dissolved into something human.

Then, a crash shattered the moment.

The bronze mirror, which had been sitting securely on the velvet pad, flipped over. It hit the table face-down with a violent *clang*.

Wei shoved Mei behind him.

The mirror vibrated. A low hum emanated from it, a sound that vibrated in the teeth.

"It doesn't like this," Wei realized. "It doesn't like the truth."

He grabbed the mirror with his gloved hand. It was burning hot.

"Go home, Mei," Wei commanded. "Lock your doors. Cover your mirrors. I need one more night to seal the final sigil."

"Wei, I'm scared."

"Go!"

She ran. The bell choked as the door slammed.

Wei looked down at the mirror. He turned it over.

The glass was black. And on the surface, written in condensation that shouldn't exist, were words.

* TOO LATE.*