by Steppen Sawicki
I could possibly expand on this one later.
She had never liked the covering of the mirrors that always came with funerals. She had seen them in the houses of her friends and distant family, black drapes hanging in odd areas in rooms and hallways, dripping off the walls, hiding reflections. But this time it was in her house. And after the guests left and her mother had gone to bed and the house was dark, she passed by the hidden mirror in the hall. The cloth billowed as she went by, and she heard her name called from it. A deep voice: the voice of her father.