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A widow. 
New Orleans. Twenty twenty-five. October twenty-seventh.

I kept his shaving mirror after he died. Old, round, framed in brass. I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

Last week, I saw him in it. Not young. Not ghostly. Him, as he was, lines and all. He looked straight at me, raised his razor, shaved.

I whispered his name. He didn’t hear. Or pretended not to.

Now he shows up every night. Same time. Same motions. I sit and watch until my eyes blur. It feels like visiting hours in a prison.

I know it’s not really him. But when he looks up, his eyes are mine.