Every night, I wake with the stars, and weave myself into the fabric of the universe before the clock strikes midnight.
Paris is shrouded in darkness tonight; I suppose it makes sense. This is why I was called here, after all.
From within the confines of this attic without a door, a point of exit or entry, I grasp at the old bag that sits at my feet. The dust of it makes me cough, as I rustle through what little belongings I have—two dresses, and a keychain my sister gave me four-hundred years back. I stop searching, once I find the mirror that started it all, from what was once my local antique store, yet is now a shabby rundown building.
The mirror has not aged well. There are black, empty specks that slowly grow into spots where vibrant gold used to be: not because of the usual wear and tear which might affect the materials used to create the mirror, but because of the damage caused from the magic I’ve been using, which likes to gnaw the insides of things that exist in this dimension.
I do not know what will happen to me once the mirror breaks, but that is of no importance now. There is no one that I can ask. I have not run into another Starlight Weaver in years, and the one I did meet was a stuffy, stuck-up old man, who barely even spared me a glance.
Since then, I’ve been alone.
I take the handheld mirror into my palm. The handle is cool against my skin, which feels as if it is burning with an ache for release, a fever that only dissipates once I have completed my work for the night. At first, the feeling was uncomfortable, and inhumane. Now, it is familiar. Comforting, even.
Perhaps, because I have grown accustomed, to not being a human thing, as I have eased myself into the skin of something ancient, almost Godlike, yet not quite—not quite, I say, for my life has an expiration date. And the Gods, they live forever.
The mirror’s glass ripples under my touch. Like water, my fingers sink into its strange, invisible liquids that transform my body; turning blood into air, skin into the strings that tie the passing of time together, and my heart into something golden and ephemeral.
The fabric of the universe itself falls over me like a heavy blanket I cannot shake off, as I am swallowed by the mirror, I fall out of it again quickly, and into the other side of the floorboards. I find myself finally outside of that small room, which gives the impression of caving in on itself, whenever I look up to its wood ceiling. Swiftly, I move throughout the apartment building. Up, down, then down again into the basement.
As I’d feared and expected: there’s no one here.
They have all been devoured by Comets—moths the size of giants, who reside in this liminal dimension, spending their time eating away at the universe’s fabric. And if I do not wish to become another memory-breakfast swallowed at dawn, I better move fast.
I jump, as high as my will can take me. My energy floats up to the top of the shadowed vision of Paris—its streets are quiet, there are no cars, no dogs barking, no people laughing through half-open windows stunk up with the scent of cigarettes. The last time I was here many lives ago, the city was rife with bustling crowds, bright street-lights that blurred out the stars, there was not one moment of silence, never like this. This is peaceful, as much as it is ominous.
As I descend back into obscurity, the wind howls. Although my face is long gone after my transformation, I can feel myself smiling, as the fabric and I along with it, ride the strong weather like a rollercoaster of the stars, leaving behind a golden dusting in our wake.
I gather the energy around me and ready myself to breathe life back into a section of Paris—yet, before I can return the souls that were stolen by Comets who ravaged the city last month, I freeze.
Something is different, I realize.
I’m not the only one here.