The rat thrashed inside the transparent jar, colliding with its glass walls in panic. Sami’s eyes met the rat’s terrified gaze through the glass, where he could now see every detail of the strange creature—its trembling whiskers, wide eyes, and fur that seemed to carry an age unfit for its small size.

Sami tapped his finger on the glass. “Time to talk, little one,” he said, then added, turning away, “but first…”

He surveyed the chaos he’d caused: scattered food crumbs, upturned jars, and swirling dust. He sighed deeply, then dragged the rat’s jar across the floor to another shelf of jars. He chose one filled with flour and placed it carefully atop the rat’s jar as a makeshift lid.

He picked up the hammer again and approached the rat, which now watched him with wide eyes. “What were you planning to do with this hammer?” he asked with bitter sarcasm. “Eat it?”

To his surprise, the rat began to squeal hysterically, pointing both front paws behind Sami to the right. Its gestures were exaggerated, brimming with urgency.

Sami spun around quickly, staring in the direction the rat indicated. He saw only the cluttered counter, its tools strewn about. He began cataloguing the wreckage piece by piece: a broken plate, a twisted spoon, a knife dangling from the table’s edge…

Then his eyes fell on the dislodged wooden plank he’d tried to fix with magic the previous night. He froze, staring at the wood, still detached from its place.

Could it be…?

He turned slowly back to the rat, this time with a serious question, as if truly expecting an answer. “Were you trying to fix it?”

The rat nodded?

It began to bob its head up and down in a distinctly human gesture.

Shock hit Sami like a runaway train, nearly knocking him to the floor.

A rat… nodding… its head.

He tried to process the information.

Failed.

Tried again.

Failed again.

He looked at his wounded hand, then at the chaos around him, then at the rat, which stared back, waiting.

He staggered back until he found himself sitting on his father’s chair.

If his father were alive, he’d have laughed until he cried, seeing his son battling a rat with a broom in the middle of the night. Or perhaps he’d have helped.

Or… perhaps he’d have known what to do with this book.

The book that had mended the chair he now sat on with magic.

The magic that hadn’t failed in its joyful hysteria but had betrayed him when aimed at the simple wooden plank.

“I haven’t slept enough for this,” he whispered to himself.

But curiosity—that wretched trait he’d inherited from his father—began to assert itself.

If the rat was this intelligent, then perhaps… perhaps last night’s magic hadn’t failed?

Perhaps it had worked in a way he hadn’t understood?

Sami looked at the rat, ignoring the sheer strangeness of the situation. “Did you come out of that crack?” he asked, pointing to the crevice formed by the dislodged wooden plank.

The rat repeated the same gesture, nodding its head in agreement.

Sami sat, bewildered. Had his magical desire been directed at the rat because it was hiding behind the plank? But he was certain he’d pointed at the wood directly.

Why, then, had the plank been ignored, and the magic aimed at this rat instead?

He plunged into a desperate attempt to recall every detail of that moment, but exhaustion weighed on his eyelids, and his thoughts slipped from his grasp like fish. In the end, he surrendered, casting a final glance at the book before rising with heavy steps to fetch his lantern, ignoring the rat’s persistent squeaking.

Stupid rat, thinking it could escape after what it had done to him.

When he returned, he placed the book on the table and opened it before lighting the lantern, watching its faint glow.

He sighed with regret. It seemed he’d spend the rest of the month relying on candles and the flickering electric light. Sitting slowly, he turned to the page for “desire” and began reading again, clinging to every letter and word.

But nothing. No hint of a mistake in the ritual.

Perhaps the error wasn’t in the words?

He rubbed his head vigorously, a headache already coiling around his temples.

Perhaps it was in his own desire. The problem was, he couldn’t recall exactly what he’d wished for in that critical moment.

Suddenly, he froze as an idea began to take shape in his mind.

He reread the phrase: “What you desired… let it desire me as I desired it.”

Somehow, didn’t the object of his desire need to understand his wish to fulfill it? Especially since the book warned against desiring what couldn’t be achieved, which required precision in knowing the desire.

Wasn’t that so?

With renewed determination and a fierce desire to unravel this mystery, he began flipping through the pages earnestly, his eyes searching for any word that might serve his new purpose.

His hand trembled as he turned the worn pages until his gaze settled on a new ritual titled “tawasol.” But he quickly dismissed it, as it promised only connection, not understanding, and what puzzled him was that the ritual required… a radio?

After this, would he find rituals demanding vinyl records or cosmetics?

It hardly seemed consistent with the idea of ancient magical rites, but who was he to judge what was fitting or not?

He shook his head, trying to banish the night’s wild thoughts, and refocused on his search. He continued turning the pages patiently until his breath caught, stopping abruptly at the word “fahm” in an unexpected moment.

Utterly unexpected…

Who was fooling? The book’s author clearly hadn’t tried to be clever.

The word wasn’t exactly what he wanted—it granted understanding, not the ability to speak directly with rats—but it would do.

He hurriedly gathered items on the table: a half-filled glass of water, an old cloth, and a candle he searched for at length in drawers and shelves until he found it hidden behind a plate in the cupboard. Finally, a small cracked mirror with a wooden frame painted green, once his mother’s.

He glanced at the rat, which watched him from the corner of the room, silent and still. Assured it wasn’t moving, he began the steps, fully aware of the absurdity of his actions.

“If my grandmother could see me now…” He’d heard enough of her stories to know this was a bad idea, but he pressed on regardless.

He positioned the mirror to reflect the candle and the glass. He wet the cloth with water and wiped the mirror’s frame three times slowly, whispering:

“Let the mouth open between me and it, let the water be its voice, and the spectre its face.”

He stared at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes widening with growing focus. Suddenly, he felt the light dim slightly, as if a faint shadow veiled part of his image. He sighed and said “the rat” clearly.

He fell silent, waiting. There was no sound, but the candle’s flame suddenly bent, as if brushed by an invisible breeze.

He waited longer.

Nothing…

Of course, nothing. What had he expected? To speak with… His reflection’s pupil moved.

He was certain he hadn’t looked away from the mirror.

He swallowed hard, his fear mounting as he saw his reflection fail to mimic him.

Could his grandmother have been right?

Suddenly, the still surface of the water in the glass rippled, and in sync, his reflection’s mouth opened.

“Hello.”

fahm/understanding:

"Make that which lies between you and your ignorance become what illuminates your insight."

Tools:
A small mirror, a candle, a glass of water, a cotton cloth.

Steps:

Choose the entity you wish to address, provided it has a material or symbolic trace in the place (a photograph, a mark, an object belonging to it).
Ensure the place you are in is quiet.

Position the mirror before you so that it reflects the candle and the glass.

Dampen the cotton cloth lightly with water and wipe the mirror’s frame three times slowly.

As you wipe, say:
“Let the mouth open between me and it, let the water be its voice, and the spectre its face.”

Gaze at your reflection in the mirror until you sense a subtle shift in the light, then speak the entity’s name once clearly.
Do not speak afterward. Wait. The first sound, or movement in the flame, or sudden thought in your mind is its response.