Her hand rakes her hair then passes over her face. She sits on the dank, dusty floor, knees pulled so tightly to her chest that her shins begin to ache. Her fingertips cut tracks through the dust, revealing a depressed, ash-coloured wood below. Ash-coloured, that is, if she could see it. She ponders whether something remains visible when no-one can see it, remains coloured when no-one perceives that colour. A parallel of the Big Question she half recalls about a tree in a deserted wood. She supposes that there probably would be very little colour in the place anyway. Not that such questions are of any consequence now. Were they ever? Other questions begin to permeate her mind... How long has she been there? She can't be sure.
She stares blindly at the object in front of her. Staring, staring... And the obsidian depths of the mirror stare back.