In Grandma Laila’s house, there was a round, dusty mirror tucked behind a curtain. No one used it—not even for combing their hair.
“Why don’t you clean it?” asked her grandson, Yash.
“Because it doesn’t show faces,” she said softly. “It shows truths.”
Late one night, curious Yash peeked behind the curtain and stared into the mirror.
He expected to see himself.
Instead… he saw a younger boy, stealing cookies and blaming his sister. Then he saw a time he shared his lunch with a sad friend. Then he saw a dream—one he hadn’t told anyone—of becoming a poet.
The mirror shimmered and faded.
The next morning, Grandma served him breakfast without saying a word.
But she did place a small notebook beside his plate.
“For your poems,” she said. “The mirror thinks it’s time.”
Yash never looked at his reflection the same way again.
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