The bluebird was young enough that its feathery down had not yet turned cobalt. Soraya set it atop a flower and waited for it to jump off, testing its wings.
It did not jump.
“Now,” said Soraya gently, kissing the bluebird’s beak to communicate that it ought to be ashamed of its cowardly behavior, “—now, Birdie, you are no longer a baby, and should learn to fly.”
The bird cocked its head at her. Soraya slapped a hand to her forehead in a theatrical display of frustration.
“Birdie!” she hissed, stroking the top of its head with such exuberant affection that it would surely feel dreadful knowing it had disgraced its ancestors. “Why, I told you a thousand times that birds are meant to fly. What exactly is the point of having wings if you don’t use them? If I had wings, oh!—If only I had them!—I would go flitting through the air and land in every flower and drink all the nectar from the roses—”
And now the child fell to one knee and looked Birdie in the eye with an air of great seriousness. “Oh, Birdie. You ought to know what a great privilege it is to have wings.”
The bird did not answer. Nor did it attempt to take flight.
Soraya sighed, and, conceding defeat, fell back against the edge of the flowerbed. Presently she began threading clover stems through her dark hair. The baby bluebird regarded her with detached curiosity, breaking its silence only once to hop towards her with a single long-stemmed rose clamped in its beak.
Soraya pondered what a terrible shame it was to have wings and not use them. She hadn’t expected the creature to be so hesitant to exercise its capabilities. She had found the bluebird several days prior in a nest; it was the tiniest of seven chicks and its mother seemed almost to have abandoned it. So she scooped it out of the nest and kept it with her, much to her own mother’s exasperation. Every few hours she would take it to the garden and coax it—unsuccessfully—to fly.
The girl, too, possessed some quality of flight in her features: Rose-skinned and star-eyed. Her hair, though black, betrayed strange glimmers of silver; lilies bloomed in her cheeks, constellations spilled across her irises. Friends and strangers alike called her otherworldly.
As for the bird, it thought her an entertaining companion, though it found her somewhat demanding.
For their part, the clover-stems had so sufficiently enamoured Soraya that she forgot all about Birdie. She twisted the clovers into a flower crown. Deciding that she should examine her reflection, she flitted inside to find a mirror. Her footsteps were almost ephemerally light, and her mother, Hana, did not notice her entrance as she slipped into her parlor.
Soraya climbed atop the makeup chair and glanced furtively about the room as if hiding some clandestine treasure. Finding no one watching her, she turned her attention to the mirror. The child in the mirror pressed an index finger to her lips, giving a slight secretive smile. Soraya laughed with cherubic radiance.
She leaned in to the girl inside the mirror. “Soraya,” she sang softly, mimicking her mother’s singsong calling-Soraya voice. “Soraya, what are you doing? Soraya, why are you always playing in the garden, getting dirty? Soraya, stop bringing bluebirds into my house!”
The girl in the mirror giggled. The sound rang feathery light. Soraya adjusted her flower crown, and the children pressed their palms together against the glass.
Something crashed outside.
The light in the mirror faltered. Blinked out. Gasping, Soraya flew to the window and parted the curtains.
“Birdie?” she whispered softly, casting her eyes down.
A white cat, snarling. A limp bluebird pinned beneath its claws.
“I forgot you!” Soraya choked, starting to sob. Her breath caught and died in her lungs. “Oh. Birdie. I forgot you.” Something shifted inside her, churning outrage.
Momentarily, her anger at the cat overwhelmed her sorrow for the bird. She imagined that the cat felt victorious at her devastation. The sight was unbearable. She flung the curtains back together and launched herself against the mirror, shattering the glass. A silver shard pierced the roses in her cheeks.
Downstairs, her mother felt panic claw its way up her ribcage. She stormed up the stairs. Crashed down the hall.
“Soraya? Where are you? Soraya!”
When the child did not answer, Hana ripped apart the doorways lining the hall. She found no trace of the little girl until she reached the last room. Sunlight streamed through the keyhole. Soraya. Of course.
Hana stopped in front of the parlor door. “Soraya!”
No answer. She wrenched the doorknob, sending the door crashing into the wall.
Soraya was not there.
Hana looked around, disoriented. Although the parlor was bathed in sunlight, the curtains were drawn. And was it just her imagination, or was it frigid, as if some child had left her icy handprints—
The mirror.
Hana knelt to examine it. The frame was still intact. Lifting a shard, she gasped. A child’s face, fragmented, emerged against the glass. The silver was fogged up as if Soraya had been breathing heavily against it. It pulsed, warm. The glowing embers of a beating heart.
Hana shuddered, dropping the splintered shard. She fled the chamber.
The grief belonged to her daughter. She would not intrude.
Mishal Imaan Syed is a student at UCLA studying cognitive science and English literature. During her free time, she plays classical piano, draws, and entertains her younger siblings.