In a dusty attic of a crumbling house in Jaipur, 17-year-old Priya stumbled upon a cracked, oval mirror framed in rusted gold. It wasn’t the kind of thing you’d notice twice—except for the faint glow pulsing from its surface, like a heartbeat made of light. She wiped the grime with her dupatta, and the glow sharpened into words: “Ask me what you’ve lost.”
Priya froze. She’d lost plenty—her father to a truck accident two years ago, her mother’s smile to endless factory shifts, and her own dreams of college to a ledger of debts. On a whim, she whispered, “Where’s my father’s silver watch?” It was the only thing he’d left her, pawned last month to pay the rent.
The mirror shimmered, and an image bloomed: the watch glinting on a pawnshop counter three streets away. Below it, more words: “Take it back before midnight, or lose it forever.” Priya’s heart raced. The shop closed at 9 p.m.—two hours away—and she had no money to reclaim it. But the mirror’s light felt alive, urging her forward.
She bolted downstairs, grabbed her mother’s old bicycle, and pedaled through the chaotic evening streets. Horns blared, dust stung her eyes, but she reached the pawnshop just as the owner, Mr. Gupta, flipped the “Closed” sign. She banged on the glass, breathless. “Please, the watch—my father’s—it’s mine!”
Mr. Gupta squinted through the door. “No cash, no watch, girl. Rules are rules.”
Desperate, Priya remembered the mirror’s glow. “Check the back—it’s engraved with ‘To Priya, my star.’ You can’t sell it legally—it’s stolen!” A lie, but her voice trembled with conviction.
Grumbling, Gupta shuffled to the counter, pulled out the watch, and peered at it under a lamp. His face paled. “How’d you know that?” The engraving was real—Priya’s father had carved it himself. Gupta thrust the watch at her. “Take it and go. I don’t want trouble.”
Clutching it, Priya cycled home, the silver warm against her chest. Back in the attic, the mirror glowed again. “Ask me what you’ve lost.” This time, she hesitated. “Why do you care?”
The surface rippled, revealing her father’s face—smiling, alive, but fading. Words formed: “I’m trapped here. Each truth you reclaim sets me free.” Tears welled in Priya’s eyes. Was this real, or some cruel trick? She asked, “Where’s the money he hid before he died?”
The mirror showed a loose floorboard under her mother’s bed, stuffed with ₹50,000 in crumpled notes—enough to clear their debts. Priya dug it out that night, her hands shaking as she counted. But when she returned to the mirror, its glow was dimmer. “One more,” it whispered.
She asked, “Where’s his laugh?” The mirror darkened, then cracked down the middle. A faint chuckle echoed—her father’s—before silence swallowed it. The light died. Priya stared at her reflection, now just a girl with a watch, money, and a broken promise. Had she freed him, or lost him forever?
The next morning, her mother found her asleep beside the cash, the watch on her wrist. “Priya, where—?” she began, but Priya only smiled. Some truths were hers alone.