Free Beyond the Reflection’s Edge by Bryan Davis Page A

backwards. He took another step. His reflection took another step. As he continued to edge back, the Nathan in the mirror closed in on the trunk behind him until his heels collided with its base.
    Slowly bending his knees, Nathan reached behind his body. Would his image lower its hands into the open trunk? It did! And he could feel his own hands go inside, moving farther down than the top of the trunk should have allowed.
    Were his hands really inside the trunk now? He didn’t dare turn to look. The trunk might slam shut and chop his hands off at the wrists. He pushed down, feeling carefully with his fingers. Each hand latched onto an object, familiar objects, but he couldn’t quite figure out what they were. As though carrying downy chicks, he coaxed the objects slowly upward.
    Still watching his reflection, now at a distance twice the length of the room, he pulled the objects out of the trunk and laid them carefully on the floor. Leaping to his feet, he spun around. The trunk was still closed, his shirt on top, but a camera and a violin lay in front of it.
    He dropped to his knees and snatched up the camera. It was Dad’s Nikon! He laid it down and picked up the violin, lovingly caressing its polished wood. Mom’s Guaneri!
    His throat caught. Tears welled in his eyes. He scrambled for his new violin case, snapped it open, and grabbed his bow.Pushing his mother’s violin under his chin, he rested the bow across the D string, then, with a gentle, reverent stroke, played a long, sweet note.
    The sound penetrated his body, sending gentle vibrations along his skin. He played another note, then a melody, measures from the Vivaldi duet. Closing his eyes, breathless and crying, his soul drank in the beautiful music. His heart sang, and in his mind, his mother sang with him. Her voice soothed his grieving soul. He wept for her, for his father, for the tragedy that had left his life in a shambles.
    After finishing a crescendo, he let his arms droop and laid the violin gently on the floor. He picked up the camera again and checked the counter. Six pictures left.
    He slid the violin in front of his knees and focused the lens, then, with a flick of his finger, he turned on the flash. His father had never upgraded to a modern digital camera. That wasn’t his way. He preferred the quality of film and the nuances of craftsmanship he could add to his photo creations by developing them himself. Nathan had spent dozens of hours in dark rooms watching him bring negatives to life, even helping him at times and learning the basics of the art.
    He caressed the surface, marred by dozens of bumps and dings it had earned through its years of service. As he smiled at its familiar touch, his skin tingled. Now the camera was his. More valuable than gold, this treasure would be with him forever. Yet, it would also be an eternal reminder, flashing again and again the image in the coffins, his dead parents mutilated by a brutal traitor. A wave of sadness drew his lips downward. This camera would be a bittersweet token, carrying both a burning acid and a healing salve.
    Aiming the camera at the violin, he pushed the shutter button and listened to the auto-advance zip the film ahead. He stood again and turned toward the mirror. It was back tonormal — no open window, no weird shadows. The trunk was closed, and his shirt covered the top.
    He strode halfway across the room and raised the camera. What would a picture of his reflection look like? He pressed the button. The flash of light bounced off the mirror and radiated back to the lens, sending an electric jolt through his hands. The camera flew from his grip, but, just before it hit the ground, he snagged the strap and swung it back up.
    Looking the casing over, he checked the meters. The film had advanced, and the flash indicator showed a charge. Everything seemed fine. He draped the strap around his neck and let the camera dangle at his chest. Taking a picture of the mirror wasn’t a great