It was ten thirty-five when the investigator stepped out of the night rain, and onto the red wooden porch of the foster home where Lucie Dare lived. He shook off his umbrella, raindrops hitting the window beside him, where just behind the fog, he could see a little girl seated at the kitchen table. Maybe the one he was looking for.

He was let in after knocking, a woman took his coat, his gloves, and pulled over a chair for him at the table, where he could sit across from the girl. "Lucie?" The woman whispered. She placed a hand on the child's shoulder, who drank from her glass of water.

"Lucie." The investigator said. "Do you mind if I ask you some questions?" His chair creaked as he bent forward. The girl looked up from the water, and set it down gently onto the tablecloth.

"Are you here about my uncle?"

"Yes."

"He is dead."

"Yes. Well, he might be."

"He is gone."

"Yes."

"I thought so."

The investigator leaned forward some more, the chair almost caving underneath him. A cry came from upstairs. A baby. The woman, looking flustered, quickly rushed towards it.

"You like your new home?" The investigator gestured at the woman, who was now out of sight. "She is very nice, is she not?"

The child pushed her knotted brown hair back with her palm. Turned the cup around. "It's just another home. I've been to many."

The man sat back in his chair. "Listen, Lucie." As he spoke, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar, and then a lighter. "I know that you used to live with your uncle. A couple of years ago. He was doing some very interesting work." He flicked the wheel of the lighter. "Do you remember anything he did? Do you- do you think you can tell me exactly what work he was doing?"

The crying upstairs grew louder. Lucie rested her head on her chin. "You want to know his work, so you can find out what happened to him."

"That's right. I want to find your uncle. And I need your help, okay? Do you think you can help me?" A nod. An eye rub. "Good. Can you tell me then? About his work?"

He watched as her eyes grew distant, and she shivered, and it ran through her body. She clutched the water glass so hard that her knuckles turned white. "I cover all the mirrors in my room." She whispered. The man leaned forward to hear. "Sometimes I have nightmares. I'm back in the house. There are no windows. Only mirrors."

"What did your uncle do with all the mirrors? The ones in his house." The water glass began to shake, and the little girl with it. He could almost hear her heart beating. Soft, under her breath. "Lucie?" he whispered. "There is a door in the house. It's locked. Do you think you might know where the key is?"

Lucie looked up. She reached for her neck and clasped onto a string with a silver key at the end.

"That's it?"

"You can't open it."

"Why not?"

"You can't. Uncle said never open it."

"What's inside?" Silence. Rain. It dripped down the windows, tapped on the glass. "Lucie, please. What do you know about your uncle's research?" She shifted in her seat, shrugged her shoulders, her eyes were turned towards the window. "Lucie. Please."

Memories ran through the little girl like water, like rain. She pulled at the sleeve of her nightgown. Bit her lip. Opened her mouth.

It was ten fifty-one when she began her story.

She had been outside of her uncle's study the first time she noticed something strange. The maid was inside, talking, pleading, trying to calm down her uncle. He was not himself that day, throwing about papers and books, and ripping up notes. His life work, he threw into the fire. "The world isn't ready!" He shouted to the maid, a pale, sliver of a woman. Gray hair pushed up into a tight bun.

"Sir! Your research! Don't do this, Richard, you've been drinking. Rest, please, rest."

He turned, struggling to stand straight, knocking over a desk chair, a stack of books. "Who do you think I am? A drunk?" His eyes locked onto those of his reflection in the mirror, the mirror that stretched across the entire back wall of his study. He reached his shaking hand out, then his index finger. "It watches me."

"Richard."

"It watches me! Look at it!" A beer bottle flew out of his hand and smashed against the mirror. The maid flinched.

"It's your reflection."

"You think I'm crazy? You think I'm insane?"

"Please."

He noticed Lucie then. She was seven. Standing in the doorway, a wooden toy horse in her hand. An expression of fear painted on her face.

"Lucie." He whispered. "Go to bed."

"Uncle?"

Her eyes shifted from the eyes of her uncle, and that of his reflection. She could have been very tired, and her eyes could have been playing tricks, but she could have sworn she saw the reflection of her uncle move it's hand, when her uncle was standing still.

The investigator fidgeted with the lighter. The cigar rested on his lip, unlit. "What was his research, Lucie."

"I told you."

"You did not."

She shrugged again, rubbed her eyes. "He thought- well. He told me once that if you measure your hair with a ruler in front of a mirror, then your hair will be a different length in the mirror then it is on your head. And he asked me how this could be, and I said I don't know. I guess that was his research, maybe."

The investigator took the cigar from his mouth and lowered his head into his hands. "I need some air."

It was clear to him that this girl knew nothing. He didn't expect her to, although, as Richard's only living relative, he didn't have many other options.

He stepped into the hallway, lit his cigar, and closed his eyes. He was chasing after someone who had most likely gone mad, off of some idea that a child would lead him there. His head was spinning.

It had been a long time since he'd even spoken to a child, and after what had happened to his own child, he didn't think he would ever be able to speak to another child again. Yet, here he was, memories streaming back to him. The car. The ice. The tree. Her school photo still lived inside his wallet.

Across the room, he noticed the mirror. He dusted off his shirt, let out a breath of smoke, and put out the cigar on his sleeve, realizing he shouldn't be doing this here. Where was his head today?

His eyes met those of his own reflection. "This is- this is nonsense." But nevertheless, he wanted to see. He held up the cigar against his palm and lined it up with the tip of his finger. "This is-" The end of the cigar reached the center of his palm. "Ridiculous." He turned his palm over, and looking at his reflection, noticing that the end of the cigar in the mirror lined up slightly differently on his hand than it actually did, outside of the mirror. "Strange." He whispered. "There must be some sort of- scientific reasoning- for-"

Lucie tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped, nearly dropping the cigar to the ground. "Do you want me to tell you more?" She whispered.

"Yes."