Desiree Dul [new] Official

It was unmarked, shoved behind a leaking pipe. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, was a single, palm-sized mirror. The glass was black—not dirty, but deep, liquid black, like a puddle of crude oil. A tiny, handwritten note was taped to the back: For D.D. – look closer.

That night, she stood in her sterile apartment—white walls, gray rug, a single succulent on the sill—and stared into the black glass. The reflection was no longer mimicking her. It was living. Dancing. Tearing open a bag of neon-pink chips. Laughing with a mouth full of crumbs.

Desirée Dul had never liked her middle name. It was her grandmother’s, a ghost of an old country she’d never seen, and it landed on her like a damp cloth: Dul . Dull. Soft. Muffled. desiree dul

Desirée had been invisible so long she’d forgotten what being seen felt like. The next morning, she wore a red scarf. The day after, she yelled at a man who cut in line at the bakery. Her hands shook. Her heart hammered. And the mirror, hidden in her coat pocket, grew warm.

Desirée almost filed it as evidence. That was her job. But the letters D.D. echoed inside her chest. She held the mirror up. It was unmarked, shoved behind a leaking pipe

The reflection’s lips moved, but no sound came from the glass. Instead, a sensation bloomed in Desirée’s throat: hunger . Not for food. For noise. For color. For the sharp bite of a winter wind and the sting of a slap and the taste of cheap red wine drunk from the bottle at two in the morning.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

The mirror watched from her purse. And the reflection smiled.