* * *

As I kept walking toward my target, I abruptly stopped when I saw an older man place a crooked finger on the gilt frame.

“No, no, no. You don’t want that.” I whispered the words, full of intent, as if he could hear me and abandon his curiosity. In the time it takes to say Rumpelstiltskin, he pulled his hand away and walked off.

After taking a few more steps, I stood in front of a large box. Because it was the tallest item, the gilt frame had been placed at the back of everything else. I tipped all of the paintings forward, to get a better look. Rectangular in shape, it didn't appear to be damaged. A soft metallic gold finish covered the intricate scrollwork at the top and the bottom of the thick glass mirror. I had to have it.

While waiting in the check-out line, one of the store’s employees said to me, “That’s a beautiful mirror. I saw them bring it in, first thing this morning.”

“Right time, right place,” I answered. Something prodded at me to get out of there as quickly as possible.

After placing the mirror horizontally, in the back of my car, I wiped the glass with my scarf, just to take off the bit of dust that had settled there.

An image appeared in the mirror. First, it looked like a cloud of fog or smoke swirling around until something else showed up. A pair of eyes, a nose and a mouth.

“Greetings to you,” an accented and masculine voice whispered.

“You can’t be real,” I said, waving my hand in the air. “I’m just imagining things.”

“I assure you, I am as real as you are.”

“No, that’s not possible,” I said, stepping away from my car. “Mirrors only talk in fairy tales.”

“I chose you.”

“Oh, I get it. There’s a hidden camera crew nearby, right?” I looked around the parking lot, but didn’t see anyone out of the ordinary. Just the normal hustle and bustle of getting in and out of cars.

“Take me home with you.”

“Why should I do that?” I asked, staring at the face in the mirror. “What are you going to do?”

“Bring you nothing but happiness.”

“Well Vincent—can I call you Vincent?” I asked. “You look like a Vincent to me. That’s a kind offer, but impossible to fulfill.

“Is there something that you would like to have?”

“Right now?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay. How about a large London Fog with a right-out-of-the-oven orange and cranberry biscuit.”

A second later, both items appeared, on a tray, in the back of my car. The cup felt hot to the touch and the aroma of the fresh biscuit hovered in the air.

“Is this one of those cases where I only get three wishes?” I asked.

“All things are open to negotiation.”