Elara did not wave back. She turned to her own reflection, smiled, and let the crack in her face deepen by just a fraction.
Elara had always believed the world was made of smooth, continuous surfaces. She was a restorer of antique mirrors, and her entire life’s work was the erasure of cracks. She filled them, polished them, made the glass whole again. Her apartment was filled with flawless reflections, and she liked it that way. Certainty, she thought, was a flat, unbroken plane. parallels cracked
“That’s sanity,” he said.