Lifkind had worked in the shop for three months now and the old lady who owned it was becoming quite attached to him. The store sold furniture and clothing and all manner of accessories. There were compasses, jewellery, coins and stamps, many from countries Lifkind had never heard of. But to him there was nothing but the looking glass.

Every day, when he arrived at the shop, he would unlock the door, pull up the shutters and prepare for the day. And always, he would spend every moment gazing at the looking glass whenever he had cause to pass it. There was nothing particularly special about it, perhaps that was part of its charm to him. It was quite ordinary, but it was this lack of decoration which made it stand out so clearly to him. Everything in the shop was thick with dust and horrendously ornate. The looking glass was like a cold glass of water on a hot day. Simple.

The old lady who ran the shop was a dear, sweet woman. Her husband long dead, there was nothing for her but the shop and, now, Lifkind. She had begun to treat him with the mannerisms of a relative and in turn, she was beginning to remind him of his mother. Dead for so much time now.

Every day he arrived at the shop would be the day he would take the looking glass. It was crystal, not glass, and housed in silver. Something that he would never be able to afford. He would have to steal it. And every day that he did not possess it was a wasted opportunity.

Today, at five fifty five in the PM, the old lady was showing a trinket to a potential customer and Lifkind stood behind the gentleman, his eyes on the looking glass which sat on a shelf next to him. Suddenly, he realised that this was it, the time for hesitating was over. With a lightning pace, and a deft maneuver, he took the glass and placed it into his pocket. Much to his surprise the crime went unnoticed by the lady or the customer.

The rest of the day passed by without incident, yet Lifkind was wracked with guilt. He could feel the looking glass in the pocket of his jacket, like a lead weight. He was alive with the fear of discovery, as unlikely as it would be, a myriad of fantasies cast themselves up in his mind. That evening, as the old lady bid him good night, squeezing his upper arm fondly and kissing his cheek, he left her to the task of locking up. He could almost see the dagger in her back.