The looking glass of Napoleon was slipped inside a purse of purple velvet. Found amongst a pile of dusty books at a garage sale in Maine. Unsheathed, its face of black obsidian sang the saga of  its origins but no one else seemed to hear it.  

It didn’t reflect what I expected. Showing instead the true nature of things. 

Galaxies of blue vapour, the Labrador’s soul. The grief that sat as stone in the belly of the widow with the painted-on smile. Her deceased husband, his arm wrapped around her. 

The looking glass was 50c. I handed over a fiver.