The Mirror in the Rain

The rain fell in thick, gray strands over the cemetery of St. Anne’s, a place I’d known all my life, yet today it felt alien. We were there for my cousin Mira, who had died three weeks ago in a fire that gutted her art studio. The official report said it was a faulty heater, but everyone in our family knew better. Mira had been working on a series of paintings that had upset some very powerful people in our town, people who collected art for reasons that had nothing to do with beauty.

The service was held in the small chapel, its stone walls glistening with damp. The air was thick with the smell of old wax and fresh flowers. I sat in the second row, next to my mother, who was clutching a handkerchief that Mira had embroidered with tiny, laughing skulls. I tried to focus on the priest’s drone, but my mind, as always, began to wander. I looked around the congregation, at the familiar faces contorted in grief, at the stained glass windows depicting saints in serene agony. And then I saw her.

Mira was standing in the far corner, half hidden by the baptismal font, her head tilted as she stared at her own coffin, which was closed because the fire had been too cruel. She was wearing the same denim jacket with the rainbow patches she always wore, but it was singed and wet, and her face was pale, almost translucent. I wasn’t scared. I felt a strange warmth, a pull. I remembered a trick she taught me: to look at things out of the corner of my eye to see their true colors. So I looked at her sideways, and she shimmered, like heat off a road.

I heard my name being called. It was my turn to speak. I stood, but my legs were heavy. I walked to the podium, my eyes still on Mira. She was mouthing something, but I couldn’t read her lips. I turned to face the congregation, and when I looked back, she was gone. A sob escaped me, not for her death, but for the missed chance. I stammered through my eulogy, talking about her laugh, her love of burnt sienna, the way she’d argue with the baker about the perfect crust.

After the service, we all filed outside into the rain. The mourners huddled under black umbrellas, their shoes sinking into the soggy grass. I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was my aunt, holding a small, damp envelope. ‘She left this for you,’ she said, her voice cracking. It was a card with a painting of a mirror on the front, and inside, in Mira’s handwriting, were the words: ‘Look through the reflection, not at it.’

I walked to the edge of the cemetery, where a large puddle had formed in a depression. The rain had stopped, and the sky was a bruised purple. I looked into the puddle, and instead of my own reflection, I saw Mira’s studio, still intact, untouched by fire. I saw her at her easel, painting furiously. And I saw the painting she was working on: a portrait of a man whose face I knew, the owner of the biggest gallery in town. He was standing behind her, holding a can of gasoline. I watched the scene unfold, and then Mira turned and looked straight at me. ‘You have to remember,’ she said. ‘The fire wasn’t the end. It was the beginning of the truth.’

The image in the puddle rippled, and then it was just water and my own pale face staring back. I looked up and saw the gallery owner, Mr. Vance, standing across the grave, offering his condolences to his family. He caught my eye and smiled, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. I looked down at the puddle again, and this time, I saw not the past, but the future. I saw myself, standing in the rain, holding a box of matches. I saw Mr. Vance’s gallery going up in flames. And I saw Mira, walking out of the fire, whole and alive, winking at me.

I knew what I had to do. I put the card in my pocket, and as the last of the mourners drifted away, I walked to my car, my heart thrumming with a purpose I had never felt before. The rain began again, and in the rearview mirror, I saw Mira sitting in the back seat, smiling. ‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘We have a painting to finish.’