We arrived at the corner of it first, of course. We always come to the corners.
The humans keep this thing polished so it can hand them back their own faces, and they visit it constantly, tilting, leaning close, smoothing themselves, checking that they are still exactly as they were yesterday. Such devotion. Such lovely, tiring work. Behind the shining glass there is silver laid thin, and the silver is already tarnishing at the edge in a soft grey bloom that no cloth can wipe, because we are underneath the surface now, not on it.
We got in where the frame meets the wall, where the warm bathroom breath collects and never quite leaves.
They do not see us yet. They see themselves, brightly, in the middle, and that middle is the last part we take. We work inward slowly, a freckle of speckle here, a dim cloud there, until one morning the reflection will be a little softer, a little kinder, and they will think their eyes are simply tired.
We admire them, truly. Every day they wipe the fog away and lean in and insist on being new. It is the most touching thing, this daily promise they make to the glass that nothing will change. And behind the promise, patiently, we spread our grey lace across the silver, dimming one thin edge at a time.
They think the mirror shows them the truth. We are the truth, arriving. In time the glass will hold nothing back at all, only us, only the soft returning dark, and they will lean in one last morning and find that the surface has finally agreed to keep them.