The Voice of a Piece of Glass

I am not something that people care about. I am just a piece of glass, hanging on the dusty wall of the living room. For years I have stood here, watching those who pass by, observing the faces that slowly change every day.

There is something I know, that they may never realize. Every time they stand in front of me, I can see not only their faces, but I also see the reflection of their hearts. Happy faces, bright smiles; ah, that is just a veil. I know when their eyes are sad, when their lips are forced into a smile.

This family is my fourth resident. A husband and wife with two small children. I remember when they first arrived, bringing with them laughter and jokes. Every morning they stood in front of me, combing their hair, straightening their clothes, making sure everything was perfect. But in recent days, something has changed. Behind their faces, I catch the shadow of fatigue and invisible cracks.

One morning, the husband stood in front of me longer than usual. He stared at me intently, as if he wanted to ask something. I saw a tinge of anxiety in his eyes, then his smile crossed, full of secrets. I wanted to tell him, "I know you're not happy, I see it from every reflection you create."

Day after day passed. I had no voice to advise or calm my sorrow. Sometimes, I felt jealous of the wind that could whisper, of the leaves that could fall by themselves. I could only keep their secrets, silent between the cracks of my increasingly worn body.

And today, there was a special guest, an old man with a wise smile. He looked at his face in front of me, seeing the increasing wrinkles. But this time, he didn't just see his reflection. He stared deeply, as if he knew that I also saw his heart. He smiled, not with his mouth, but with his eyes.

"Ah, even a piece of glass can hold life," he murmured.

Maybe one day, when I'm no longer mounted on this wall, someone will remember the reflection I once saw, the life I once shared secretly. Because I'm not just glass; I'm a witness to everything that's unspeakable.

Days went by, and the family seemed to gather together less and less in the living room. The sound of laughter that used to fill the room has now been replaced by a silence that hangs, like dust on my surface. Their children play in their respective rooms, the wife is busy with herself, and the husband often sits stunned, staring at me with a blank stare. In that silence, I feel my presence is starting to become a kind of reminder for them, but I don't know what it is, a reminder of the happiness that has passed or an unresolved wound.

One night, the wife stood in front of me. Behind her puffy eyes, I caught a look of deep fatigue, as if burdened by something she could never tell anyone, not even herself. She took a deep breath, as if she wanted to tell me something, even though I was just glass that couldn't speak. Then she left, leaving an empty reflection that remained hanging on my face.

A few days later, something unexpected happened. A loud noise hit me, making me shatter and scatter to the floor. In an instant, I was no longer whole. Pieces of me lay scattered, small, separate reflections, each holding the shadow of what they had once left. I saw the pieces of their faces, a sliver of a fake smile, a line of wrinkles that settled in sadness.

I knew this was the end. Maybe I would no longer be a witness to anyone. But before it all disappeared, I realized something: in every piece of me, there was a part of them that would live on. Every memory, every emotion, stored in tiny fragments that now mingled with the dust on the floor.

The next day, they came. The husband, the wife, their children all stared silently at the scattered pieces of me. There, they saw their broken reflections, as if the mirror, like their lives, also needed to be put back together. In silence, I watched them look at each other, for the first time in a long time.

I felt relieved, even though I was devastated, because now they might begin to see what I had hidden for so long in my silent reflections. A family, even if broken, can still be whole if they want it to be. I was just a piece of glass that had been a witness, and now I knew, every reflection I had ever given eventually returned to them.

And so I left, leaving them with the image of their lives needing to be put back together, one last time.