The Great Reflectors, the Seven Mirrors of Transport who once dwelt in the bowels of Gallifrey, are looking at themselves, shuffling about in the great grand world.
This museum on Mnrva, they have decided, despite their New Year’s resolutions, is an excellent place to muse, if full of a tad too many onlookers. But that is all right.
There is a painting in the museum, however, that whips away the madding, shuffling crowd.
As they stand admiring this painting in particular, the seven silver mirrors are listening now, listening with their silver ears and silver hairs and silver lips and silver teeth, for the resonance of song.
They listen to paintings. To statues. To the breathing of children as they run from exhibit to exhibit, catching glimpses.
But in the painting, only sand, at first; blank white sand.
Nestled halfway out of the pool of grains, a wooden structure.
A little shack. There is a white and red ringed life preserver there, hanging demurely from the left side like the stripes of a Christmas candy cane stuck on a tree and waiting for a mouth.