There's a lot that she wants to ask in that moment, and a lot that she doesn't know how to say. What kind of person is he, really? Does he see her as a person now, or just an object -- a mirror? How much does he know about the past? How much has she missed in the present?

Could he help her?

Could she go home if he did?

The last two questions are like reawakening nerve cells pulsing with a sudden burst of electricity; they ignite and spread, sending an ache throbbing through her mind so rich and raw, it startles her in its ferocity.

She hasn't allowed herself to think that way for so long . . . but once ignited, it spreads like wildfire, and it's hard to turn off.

The image of stars chases over the mirror's surface -- the cosmos, vast. One star in particular stands out, constant against the shifting background.

I want to go home.