Midnight’s violet secrets lingered on the swirling enigmatic mist—an emblematic acquaintance of Dublin—that obscured the crispness of the early summer air. Drizzle, another frequent visitor of the city, came along with the mist as always.

Desmond pulled his coat tight against the cold.

“He looked so real,” he murmured, turning to Fia, trying his best to maintain a calm expression. The freezing temperature of the night was making it difficult, and Fia’s warm smile wasn’t helping—at all. His vision drifted to her dark eyes—they were as dark as midnight. “Was he real?”

He couldn’t tell which was the answer he was looking forward to hear—no, maybe?

Freya’s smile was dazzling. “It,” she corrected him. “And of course not. It wasn’t real. I already told you that.”

He was slightly disappointed. Then he frowned. Why would he be? Does he even want his own reflection to be real? He shook his head.

“But it looked so real,” he repeated.

“It was,” she admitted.

Everything on the street seemed so pale with vague moonlight being the only light source. And darkness surged upon the shadow of this pale illumination, coating reality with illusion.

“How can you be sure if something’s real, though? They say that the reflection of mirrors isn’t real. You cannot touch it, cannot feel it, nor smell it—yet you can see it.”

“So you trust your eyes more than the rest of your body?” Fia countered, narrowing her eyes.

The drizzle was tickling and freezing. Desmond enjoyed soft drizzles, but now every drop of them grew like silver needles, penetrating the surface layer of his twill trench coat.

He shivered. The cold was a part of the reason.

“No. Not really...but if the way you define something is unreal by merely stating that it cannot be touched physically, that’s not a rather precise definition, isn’t it?”

“When you touch the mirror, you can physically feel it. Then, how can you be sure that the mirror’s real?” Fia asked.

Frowning, he turned to her again. “How can you not?”

She shrugged. “Well, in your dreams, you’ve had the experience of touching something, yes? But they’re not real—those you touch in your dreams.”

“And how can you be sure that they’re not real?”

Fia laughed. “Now this is getting philosophical.” She tilted her head. “Do you wish them to be real, then? Your dreams?”

He paused. “It depends. Sometimes dreams are wonderful—they have their unique sense of perfection beyond reality. And sometimes they’re bizarre. And rarely, nightmares—of course I wouldn’t want that kind of dreams to be real.”

She nodded. “But reality has its own perfection, too. And reality is bizarre. And reality could be a nightmare.”

“Fair enough.”

They kept walking. The mist drifted along with them, softening the crystal-clear iciness—but the cold never went away. Neither did the darkness. His breath ghosted out in front of him and faded into the whispering wind as quickly as it appeared.

And then they stopped in front of Fia’s house.

Fia turned. Her dark hair flipped over her shoulder—it was hard to tell which one was darker, her hair or the thickening midnight. The breeze coming through her hair wafted a faint scent of lavender.

He breathed in deeply—the crispness of the air slightly burning his lungs.

“Thanks for accompanying me home, Mr. Moore,” she looked into him with those striking dark eyes.

“You’re very welcome, Miss Cullen.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He nodded in inattentiveness. His eyes still fixed on her.

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

On his way back home, Desmond’s mind drifted to Fia’s lab—specifically, on the “mirror”—that’s what Fia called it. It was just a few hours ago, and everything was clear and vivid, floating in his memories.

“It’s barely an imitation of the objects surrounding it,” Fia said. “But the imagery did work out—at last.”

He carefully examined the sheer glass in front of him—the so-called “mirror”—close enough that he saw the reflection of his eyes. But there were more than two pair of eyes counting in his reflection—well, his normal reflection.

What he was looking at was him. Literally. The person in front of him had the champagne curls identical to Desmond’s, brushing over his forehead. It had the exact same pearl-grey eyes. The exactly same full lips. The exactly same pale skin. The exactly same bewildered eyebrows. No, not exactly the same. Desmond knew he must’ve looked confused. But that him in the mirror wasn’t confused—at all. In fact, he looked calm and poised.

He swallowed and decided to fix his eyes on Fia instead. “Who—what’s this?”

“It’s a reflection of yours,” Fia answered, her gleaming eyes flickering in excitement. “Isn’t it amazing?”

“So amazing that it’s freaking me out,” he said. “What’s the purpose for your, um, invention?”

“It’s meant to help those who suffered from losing their families or friends. This is an autonomic intellectual information collector that immediately gathers information to imitate the visual form of a certain existence. It’s a 3D representation—a perfect resurrection of you.”

“Hello,” the man in the mirror said with Desmond’s voice. Desmond jumped back, startled.

“Actually not just a visual form,” Fia suppressed an outburst of laugh. “It shows other sensory information as well.”

“Other sensory information? Can you smell it, then?”

“In fact, yes.”

“How?”

“You can smell because the released chemical molecules in the air stimulate your olfactory receptor and the olfactory signals are sent to your olfactory nerve, right? This thing, here, what you’re looking at? It’s more than a mirror. It’s not just glass. It has an internal chemical storage which releases chemicals in the size of normal odor molecules as needed.”

“I see. And,” he paused. “Can you feel it? The imagery?”

“You can touch it if you want.”

Desmond raised a hesitating finger. Slowly, he touched the mirror in front of him with the tip of his finger.

And he suddenly drew back as fast as he could, panting in shock.

Fia looked at him, anticipation overflowing her dark eyes.

“He has a body temperature,” Desmond raised his finger in disbelief as if showing her his finger could prove what he said.

“I know.”

“How is that possible?” He took another step back from the “mirror”.

“The original purpose was to make the figures as real as possible. And well, temperature was not difficult to create, isn’t it? A heater will do it. Isn’t that wonderful? That it’s amazingly real?”

He forced a smile. “Amazingly, no.”

She pursed her lips. “What do you think of it?”

“I don’t know. Well, I mean, it’s a great design. You said it was meant to help those who suffers from personal loss? How can he—I mean it, no, “this”—imitate the dead? It’s an automatic information collector, yes, but does that mean you have to gather all the information from a dead person’s relatives or friends? And would that be enough? Just a few photographs and recordings?”

“You’d be surprised by the developing speed of technology every day, Desmond,” Fia said. “But you’re a mechanical engineer. You should know better than anyone about that. You deal with robots, don’t you?”

“Yeah but this makes me doubt the utility of robots,” his eyes dug into the mirror.

“Come on. You know as well as I do how useful robots can be in this era of—what do they call it? The era of AI.”

“I know. Until today. You’ve fascinated me with the possible creativity of technology.”

“Thank you.”

“I have a question, though.” He hesitated. “How do you...how do you tell if it’s a real person or not? I mean, yeah, I know it’s a reflection. But if...for example, if I lost my brother, and I see this thing here after he died, I might regard it as real. Since I can see him, hear him, and even touch him. And above all of them, I would want it to be real. So, how can you tell if it’s real or not? How do you prove to them they’re just a reflection? Wouldn’t that be...cruel? Giving you the hope that they could exist once again and then telling them, nope, it’s a fake.”

“I understand. But the gone is gone, and no one comes back from death. And…I guess you’re right.” She frowned slightly, but her expression relaxed shortly after. “Anyway, back to your question—yes, there are differences between them and the real people they’re modeled after, with the biggest one being that they’re not real. They can’t walk around freely. Their territory is bound to this mirror. The boundary of the mirror is basically the farthest they can get.”

“It’s nice to know that there is a difference at the end of the day,” Desmond said. “And I have another question—if you come into this room and see me and this other me in the mirror, will you be able to tell which one’s which? This guy here is wearing the exactly same clothes I’m wearing, having the exactly same body as mine, and he can mimic what I do.”

“That’s its intended purpose, like I said, to mimic people as much as possible. As for your question—yes—I will certainly be able to tell which one’s which. You’re alive, and it’s not. You’re real, and it’s not. And, most obviously, that thing’s domain is limited to that mirror. By just asking you to walk around the room would be enough to distinguish you two.”

“Makes sense.”

“And another thing for mirrors. The more you look, the less you see.” A mischievous smile caught the corner of her lips. “When you’re looking at the mimicry figure of others in the mirror, the more you look, the more you’re focused on the figures. And honestly, these figures exist because you look—and because there is a need for you to look. For you, and us, without looking in the mirror, we exist. We don’t exist because others need us. I guess—we exist simply because we do.”

He blinked once, slowly, as if imprinting these words onto his brain. “Wow—I mean, yeah, I agree. And that’s also a difference between that him in the mirror and me. Yet a theory is a theory. Sadly, people don’t often make decisions based on theories. Instead, a lot of people found emotion to be the first thing they turn to when decisions face-to-face.”

“When you look at yourself in this mirror, do you feel it to be real so you choose to believe it to be real?”

Desmond felt like this conversation was developing in the direction that was beyond his comprehension.

“Kind of.”

“In a sense, it doesn’t give me a feeling that’s too real. I choose to believe you to be real. I guess…philosophers would say that these images don’t have soul. That’s a difference, too.”

“I admit that it’s not that real—not one hundred percent real. It’s real enough, though. I think it’s a wonderful design, Fia. It’s brilliant.”

“Thank you, Desmond.” Smiling, she leaned forward, closing the distance between them and filling his breath with a delicate fragrance of lavender.

“You’re welcome,” he murmured.

She was so close. The air was laced with the gentleness of lavender, as if they were blue.

And air was not the only thing filled with her scent.

When he was on his bed, Desmond’s focused on that smell, trying to remember what did it feel like.

With that faint bouquet lingering on him, he gradually fell sleep.

He was a light sleeper. During nights, he usually woke up when someone approaches. Or something. Once an augurey flew into his room when his window was still opened, and he woke up in the middle of the night to find that it was whistling right at him besides his bed. Not exactly a pleasant memory.

In his dream, he was walking on a broad street by himself. The sky above him was silver-white, and the road down his feet was flat and smooth—like a mirror. He was alone by himself. There was something surrounding him, but they were all just vague shadows. When he approached these shadows, they disappeared. Nothing was actually there.

He kept turning back—he didn’t know why. Maybe it was because he had a feeling that someone was there.

But every time when he turned and checked, no one was there.

Yet this preconscious feeling didn’t go away.

Then he realized it was because someone was actually there—by his side.

He felt it.

Then he opened his eyes.

No one was here.

He sighed and got out of bed. The sun was high in the sky. The clock revealed that it was already nine in the morning.

And he took a round in his house. Nope. No one was here. And there was no sign of anyone else being in house, except him. The chairs were facing the table obediently. The table was perfectly neat and clean. The windows were closed. Everything stayed at exactly where they were when he came home last night. So, no one had been here. Except him.

He shook his head.

Just a dream, he told himself. Just another stupid dream.

Last night’s mist was erased by the morning’s incandescent hue. The weather was clear.

“Here you are,” Fia opened the lab door for him.

“Good morning, Fia,” Desmond blinked.

“Good morning to you, too, Desmond,” Fia’s smile was dazzling. Her lavender perfume was soothing.

“Did you have breakfast yet?”

“No. I was too obsessed with my new toy here. I found out a few problems in its program yesterday, so the first thing this morning I came here to fix it.”

“Did you get your problem solved now?”

She shook her head. “No. Not yet. It was more complicated than I thought. But I kinda handled it—I think? Still, the problem was not fully solved.”

“I always take a few minutes off when I run into difficulties. Would you like to have brunch with me, then?”

“I guess I could use some spare time.” Fia’s bright smile was radiant.

“Excellent.”

The restaurant table was clean and shiny. Well, Fia was shinier. She took off her white lab coat, and the color of her dress was ebony, its pitch-black patterns weaving a story of mystery. Her dress was striking. So was she.

“What are you up to recently, Desmond?” Fia asked. “You haven’t been busy lately, have you? You’ve been visiting my lab quite frequently these days. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining.”

“Really?”

She blushed because of the sense of teasing in her tone.

“Of course. You’re always welcomed to my lab, Desmond.”

“And I would also love to show you my works, Fia. It’s just—” he shrugged. “They’re classified.”

“I know. The whole AI and tech savvy robot stuff—well, I’m not that interested anyway.”

“I’m slightly disappointed. I thought you would be.” Desmond smiled.

“I prefer to hear them from you instead of looking at them myself.”

“I’m honored.”

He watched as Fia sipped the Sauvignon Blanc in her glass. Then he noticed her right hand. There was a cut on the palm of her right hand—a deep cut. Its deep rose color of her flesh means that this was a fresh cut.

“Your hand—are you okay? How did you get that cut?”

Fia smiled. “Desmond, you’re too sweet. Yes, I’m okay. I just broke a beaker in the lab this morning. And I tried to clean it up—it turned out using hands to clean up that mess was the wrong call. Should’ve used a tweezer or a pair of gloves instead.”

“Fia,” Desmond shook his head. “You cannot touch shattered glass with your bare hands. Don’t ever do that again.” He gently gathered her hands in his, careful not to disturb the wound, but close enough to inspect its severity.

“I won’t,” she said seriously. “This will never happen again.”

“Good. How does your hand feel now? You did clean the wound, didn’t you? Can I get you some, um, petroleum jelly?”

“Stop worrying about my hand, Desmond,” She drew her hands away. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Okay. Good.”

“How did you sleep last night?”

“Last night?” Desmond looked up. “Everything went the way they should be. Nothing special. Why?”

She shrugged. “Just asking.”

“I slept pretty well.”

“It’s good to hear,” Fia’s beaming smile brightened up her face. “I had a great night.”

Desmond frowned slightly. There was something in her tone. Something unfamiliar that he didn’t like.

“Oh? Well, it’s good to hear, too.”

“A great night always makes your day ravishing, doesn’t it? And the weather is glorious. A beautiful start of a brand-new day. How wonderful.”

“Wonderful indeed.”

“I like when the weather is sunny. Dublin needs more sunshine.”

“I agree. Sunny days cheer you up easily.”

“Uh-huh. On the other hand, rain could be delightful sometimes. But it depends.”

He listened more carefully. What she said seemed normal—nothing unusual. But now he was certain that there was something unfamiliar in her tone. Why? He didn’t know. Maybe he was thinking too much.

“I’m not a big fan of the rain,” Desmond said. “Rainy days are dreary.”

“They could be. But sometimes rain could be refreshing.”

“But the humidity comes along with it could be depressing.”

“How about the drizzle? Drizzles are like little silver fairies coming out from the legends of Ireland, messing around. I like drizzles.”

“Drizzles are better.” He took a sip of the drink in his glass.

Fia’s eyes followed his glass. “Well, the rain cleans away the dust. It’s a natural phenomenon. They wash away the remain of the past—the old and outdated dust that could no longer be used.”

“It is a natural phenomenon. And the nature needs this. So, although I hate the rain,” he shrugged, “I understand the necessity of it.”

“I’m glad you see it that way. Yes, exactly. Sometimes something new has to take place over those who already exists.”

“Right.”

“This always happens. I would say it’s almost meant to happen—all the time.”

“I mean, it’s a cycle, isn’t it? It always happens. Just like…” he tried hard to think of a good example. “Just like, um, how cars took over carriages, I guess? And AI taking over humans. Ignore what I just said. Just kidding.”

She smiled. “I know. But there is a trend—even to the slightest.”

“Yes. I wonder if there is that day, actually. That someone else—or something else—take over us humans.”

“I would like to find out, too. I think you’ll find out, though.”

“Really?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Honestly? I don’t know. But changes always take place. And, like I said—sometimes changes are necessary. Right?”

“Right,” he murmured before pausing, his voice drifting off.

He shifted to look at her closely.

Fia’s lavender perfume were as perfect as always. Delight danced in her dark eyes. Her ink-colored hair cascaded down her slim shoulders, as lustrous as the pitch-black midnight moon with a gentle touch of violet.

If anything was different, Fia was prettier than ever. But there was something else. He could tell that…there was something. His eyes narrowed. Something was off. But he couldn’t tell what was it.

He leaned forward, closing the distance between them. He studied her more carefully, his pale grey eyes incorporating every detail on her.

Fia smiled at him. Her smile was dazzling.

“Desmond? Everything alright?” She leaned forward, too.

The fragrance of lavender—coming from her—thickened.

She was so close. Desmond could see his own reflection in those dark eyes.

“Desmond?”

He drew back.

“But you’re not Fia.”