River opens the mirrored door, her eyes wide on what she sees inside the box.
There is a chain, a single, quantum-material chain, affixed to the mirrored door.
As she pulls the door open wider, it pulls more tautly on whatever it is inside, ensuring the safety, in all dubious probability, of the one who opened the door.
She peers in closer, unable to help herself- and where her hand lands naturally, near the crack of the door, she finds a small switch, which she flips.
Light fills her eyes and floods the box; bringing the face of something she hoped she’d never see again.
The calm stone face of the only Weeping Angel ever to smile at dinner, the one who stole her parents from a graveyard in New York, is staring demurely back at her, from a nest of chain, in a cage of mirrors and light.
Also, like a mendicant stolen from their prayers, a white paper sign hanging around its neck, scribbled in Galactic Common, reads: