I return to the mirror, and I make myself small to haunt its frame with my essence until it shakes, then lets me out again. Back into a world where I can breathe, and hurt, and sing.

The mirror falls to the ground with a lonely clank. I stride up to my bed. I huff, then wrap the covers around my aching spine, as I lay my head atop a pillow that is comfortable only because I have grown accustomed to it—I watch the rising sun from out a window without handles, and fall asleep for the rest of the day.

When I wake, it is night again.

I plunge into the mirror and wonder if I will see him once more on the rooftops of Paris: an elusive catcher of stars, the mysterious Hunter of Hearts.

It takes me a little less time to get to where I want to be, on my journey tonight. In fact, I don’t recall ever being so swift on my feet. Perhaps, it is because this shift will not be as predictable as every other night’s—I do not know what will happen, once I step foot deeper into the city’s lungs. Will he be here?

Or have I just missed him?

Can he tell me… about my existence? I had never learned much about us, aside from our roles.  It would be nice to know more about what has brought me here, for what may very well be an eternity.

I jump and I fly. The night sky has been washed of its stars, for without anyone to perceive them, they do not glow—and the Hunter and I, the Comets: we may be here, but we do not exist. At least, not in this world.

There are mysteries lurking in every corner of the city. Figments of light chasing memories on instinct, tracing invisible paths in their leaving, as they move in mechanical, outlined ways across Paris, unknowing that the Hunter of Hearts will soon put an end to their endless wandering.

As expected, he shows up soon. I spot him in the distance, a buzzing, wayward traveler in the shape of a young man whose back has been covered by a cloak made from the skin of Comets; the cloak gives the illusion that he has wings—painted on them are celestial swirls, a memory of the Milky Way itself, and perhaps, parts that have been stripped from it, too. Comets don’t only go for people, after all. And part of what they chew up, always remains inside their outer shells, even long after they are dead.

I want to run to him. Amid the darkness, a familiar face is a reassuring sight—but I can’t. We’re on duty, and the Gods which govern us wouldn’t be happy. I want adventure, I crave it, even. Yet, I can’t get us in trouble. I don’t know what would happen, if I did.

So, I start weaving, dancing across the sky, letting go of the feverish sweat that had pained me, as the souls he collected last night exit my body like butterflies leave their cocoons, they twinkle amid the darkness, readying themselves to greet the twilight hours once he and I will have disappeared. It is exhausting just as much as it is exhilarating, and I work faster than I usually do, spinning around myself, releasing everything that I had been keeping in this heart I have been given for the service of others.

When the souls have all been released, I let myself fall again, I walk up to the buildings beneath me. I hug them, and their surroundings, too. The trees. The cars. The abandoned bicycles and toys left behind. I breathe life back into the street sides. I bring back that which was lost. And I lose myself in Paris. And I lose myself in here. In the warmth, and the shadow, and the light, as everything I touch becomes me, I become one with the fabric of the universe. I stop thinking.

I forget what happens next. Until it is over. And I am half-of-myself again, panting, knees giving out onto the pavement as my legs quiver. I look up to the sky. The golden, firefly-like souls have disappeared. It seems, that he has caught them all for tonight.

“Hey,” a low, raspy voice says from behind me. I jump out of my skin—out of the universe’s blanketing fabric, and into the shape of a girl again.

It’s him.

“Hunter Of Hearts,” I smirk, as I show him a curt nod. “Have you come to take my soul?”