An enigmatic oval wooden mirror reflecting a foggy forest on an asphalt road in fantasy style

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A soldier
Fort Bragg. Twenty twenty-five. October twenty-sixth.

We polish everything. Boots, rifles, helmets—always shining, always inspection-ready. That means reflections.

During drill, I saw myself in the barracks window. Same uniform. Same posture. Except he turned his head first. Looking at me. Not the sergeant. Not the flag. Me.

I froze. Missed the step. Got chewed out. But the reflection kept moving, sharp, perfect. Like he was the better soldier.

That night, in the latrine, my reflection saluted. I hadn’t raised my hand. He held the salute until my arm went up, too.

Now I can’t tell which side of the glass is drill, and which is war.