John Ward

Tommy Noonan felt his daughter’s arm twist in his grip as she tried to pull back. He held tighter. Not rough, but firm enough to ensure that she couldn’t slip free.

She made a sound. Sharp, frustrated. He couldn’t tell if it was anger or something else. He hated leading her around like she was a toddler, but she needed to stay close. Not ten feet ahead or lagging behind. Right beside him. Especially today, because this would be his last opportunity.

They cut through the parking area toward the rural crossroads where vendor booths occupied three corners of the intersection. The evening sun stretched long shadows across tables and canopies. Most venders were already packing up, calling to each other as car doors slammed in the background.

A canvas banner sagged between two poles. In faded letters across its surface, a professionally printed message read: CROSSROADS BAZAAR. Then, stenciled over it in rough black letters were the words: FINAL WEEKEND.

“Tommy!” A stoop-shouldered man approached, carrying a box of battered paperbacks. “You’re cuttin’ it close, my friend. Got some Clive Cussler hardbacks I set aside for you. Miranda’s at my booth if you want ’em. Buy ’em and I won’t have to drag ’em back to the car.”

Tommy nodded without slowing, his eyes scanning the remaining booths. Two years of searching. Tomorrow this place would be gone.

Natalie pulled against his grip again. Harder this time.

“Dad. It’s past six. The sign literally says ‘final weekend’ and everyone’s packing up. What are we doing?”

“I know.” His eyes kept moving across the booths. “I just… please. Just…”

Natalie gestured at their surroundings. “Look around. Vendors leaving, cars leaving, light fading. Can we just… not?”

He couldn’t explain. Not yet. Not until…

She stopped pulling against his grip. Her arm went slack. Not agreement. Surrender. “Right. Okay. Cool.”

Past the regular vendors, he spotted unfamiliar booths. These were sellers he’d never seen before. His pulse began to quicken. They were also packing up, but beyond them, tucked near the edge: a brown canopy. Wooden shelves. A figure behind a table, organizing something with careful precision.

Relief hit him so hard it hurt.

“There.” His voice broke on the word. “That’s him.”

Tommy focused hard on the brown canopy ahead, passing a young man who had just left the booth. He was smiling and crying, both at once.

Tommy stared after him.

Smiling was happy. Crying was sad. Both together…

He didn’t know.

The young man disappeared into the thinning crowd.

Tommy stepped up to the table.

Behind it sat a man in an immaculate dark suit. The cut was decades out of fashion but the fabric was pristine. He bent over a large leather-bound ledger, making notations with a fountain pen. Behind him, shelves lined the booth’s interior. They displayed mirrors of various sizes, old books, and objects Tommy couldn’t quite identify in the fading light.

The man looked up. Smiled briefly.

“Ah, Thomas. So good of you to come.” His voice was formal, precise. Almost British, but not quite. “Do forgive me. I must complete this notation first. The details fade if one delays.”

He returned to his ledger, pen moving with careful deliberation.

Tommy’s pulse hammered against his ribs. Two years. Two years searching every weekend market, every crossroads flea market within fifty miles. And now…

“Dad.” Natalie’s voice was flat. Dead. “Who is this?”

Not a question. A demand.

“Just…” He couldn’t explain. Didn’t have the words. “Please.”

She exhaled through her nose. Said nothing.

The man set down his pen with deliberate care. Blotted the page. Closed the ledger with both hands, the gesture somehow proper. Final.

“Thank you for your patience.” He looked at Tommy directly now, and something in the way he looked… Tommy felt his breath catch. It was like being recognized. Like being known.

“It has been some time, has it not?” The man’s gaze shifted to Natalie, considering.

“It has,” Tommy said, but he was barely listening to his own words. His eyes moved past the man to the mirrors on the shelves behind him. Different sizes, different frames. None of them right. Where was…

“Finnegan Gancangh is the name.” The man’s voice pulled Tommy’s attention back. He was extending his hand toward Natalie. “It is such a pleasure to meet you.”

Natalie hesitated. Tommy saw her shoulders tense, then she shook his hand briefly.

“Charmed,” Finnegan said. “May I assume that Thomas is your father?”

Tommy glanced back. She gave Finnegan a hesitant nod and then asked, “So what’s the deal here?” Natalie’s voice, sharper now. She was gesturing at the shelves around them. “Antiques, curiosities, or are we more in the ‘cursed object’ category? Because Dad dragged me here like it’s a matter of life and death, and I’m trying to figure out what I’m looking at.”

She’d turned slightly toward him on the word “Dad,” her expression… he couldn’t read it. Irritation? Something else?

“I would characterize the inventory as… selectively enchanted, Miss Noonan.” Finnegan’s hands rested on the table, fingers steepled. “Though I assure you, the curses are entirely optional.”

Tommy turned back to the shelves. Mirror. Focus. It had a brass frame, oval, about this big…

Natalie laughed. Short, surprised. “Optional curses. That’s either the best sales pitch or the worst disclaimer I’ve ever heard.”

“I find transparency serves both parties in any transaction. Would you prefer I obscure the particulars?”

“Nah, I appreciate honesty.” Natalie’s voice was lighter now. Almost playful. “It’s refreshing. It’s like finding a non-sketchy guy at a place called ‘Crossroads Bazaar.’ Which—not gonna lie—is giving me major ‘deal with the devil’ vibes.”

“I am obliged to tell you that I am neither diabolical nor particularly sketchy, madam.” Finnegan’s tone remained perfectly even. “Merely… punctilious in my arrangements.”

“Punctilious… okay.” Natalie was smiling. Tommy could hear it in her voice even without looking. “Breaking out the fifty-dollar words.”

“I should hardly think fifty dollars adequate compensation for proper diction, Miss Noonan. Inflation, you understand.”

Natalie laughed again. Louder this time. “Did you just… okay, that was actually good. Didn’t see that coming.”

Tommy straightened, turned back toward them. They were both smiling now. Natalie had relaxed. Her arms weren’t crossed anymore. She was leaning forward slightly, one hand on the table.

“I’ve had considerable practice, if I may say so.”

“How considerable we talking?” Natalie tilted her head. “Because you’ve got this whole ‘I’ve seen some things’ energy. Very Gandalf-meets-pawn-shop-owner.”

Finnegan’s smile deepened. “A somewhat reductive comparison, though not entirely inaccurate. I confess I have occupied this particular niche for… longer than most.”

“Cryptic. Love it.” Natalie was grinning. “Very mysterious-old-dude-at-a-market of you.”

Tommy’s chest tightened watching them. She was talking to this stranger the way she used to talk to him. Before. Easy, quick, back and forth like…

He looked away. Focused on the shelves again.

“And you, Miss Noonan, possess rather a remarkable facility for rapid-fire observation.”

“I’m twenty-one. I’ve seen my share of weird.”

Finnegan’s voice shifted. It was still formal, but softer underneath. “Your mother had a similar gift, if memory serves.”

Tommy froze.

Silence. Then Natalie’s voice, different now. Quieter. “You knew my mom?”

He turned back. Natalie was staring at Finnegan. Her face had changed. Tommy couldn’t name what he was seeing, but something had shifted. Her whole body had gone still.

“Oh, indeed.” Finnegan reached behind him without looking, his hand moving to a specific spot on the shelf. He pulled out a small brass compass and set it on the table in front of her. “She stood precisely where you are standing, must be… twenty years ago? At the very least. She was quite fond of that compass, as it happens.”

Natalie picked up the compass slowly. Turned it over in her hands, examining it. Her head was bent, hair falling forward. Tommy couldn’t see her face.

“Okay, that’s…” She looked up at Finnegan. “How do you remember that?”

“I remember all of my customers, Miss Noonan. It is rather the point of the profession.”

“Right. Sure.” Natalie set the compass down but didn’t let go of it. Her fingers rested on its edge. “Totally normal to remember someone from that long ago at a random flea market.”

“I should hardly characterize this establishment as random, madam. Crossroads rarely are.”

Natalie’s hand froze on the compass. “There it is again. That cryptic thing. You’re really committing to the bit, huh?”

“I assure you, Miss Noonan, I am quite sincere. Though I understand sincerity may appear rather… theatrical when delivered with proper formality.”

She was quiet for a moment. Studying Finnegan. Tommy watched her face, trying to understand what she was thinking. Was she suspicious? Curious? He didn’t know.

“You know what?” She lifted her hand from the compass. “You’re either the most elaborate weirdo I’ve met all week, or you’re legit something else entirely. Haven’t decided which yet.”

“I am content to remain categorically ambiguous for the present, if that suits.”

“It super doesn’t,” Natalie said, “but I respect your commitment to the aesthetic.”

Finnegan’s smile returned. Small, controlled. “Most kind of you to say so.”

Tommy moved forward, coming to stand beside his daughter at the table. Close enough to touch her arm but he didn’t. “Honey, I wanted to show you something.”

Natalie didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed on Finnegan., “This isn’t over. I’m figuring you out.”

“I have no doubt you shall make a formidable attempt, Miss Noonan.”

Tommy took a step back as Natalie turned to face him.

“What did you want to show me?”

“A mirror.” Tommy looked past Finnegan to the shelves again. Mirrors but not the right ones. The same books. The same old photographs. His hand went to his hair. “It was here. Thirty-two years ago. I held it, I looked into it.” His fingers caught in the tangles. “It’s not… he must have sold it.”

“A mirror, yes. Let me see…” Finnegan bent to look under the table. Tommy heard him moving boxes aside. “Here it is: the very one!”

Finnegan straightened, holding a small oval mirror with a brass frame. The metal had darkened with age, and the intricate symbols that decorated the edges were barely visible.

Tommy’s breath stopped. That was it.

“I believe this is what you are looking for.” Finnegan held the mirror out toward him.

Tommy reached for it. He pulled it close with both hands. Finally. After two years. She would see. She would finally see what he couldn’t say. She would understand. His thumb traced the edge of the frame, following the worn symbols. “Now I can show you…”

“I do hope the question isn’t too impertinent.” Finnegan’s voice cut through, drawing Tommy’s attention back to him. “But where is Melanie?”

The words hit Tommy like cold water. He looked up.

Finnegan was watching him. Waiting.

Tommy opened his mouth. Nothing came.

“She died,” Natalie said. Her voice was flat. Hard.

Tommy’s hand tightened on the mirror.

Finnegan went still. He paused and looked at Natalie. Really looked at her, the way you might look at a photograph of someone you used to know, checking if the resemblance holds. “You have her eyes,” he said quietly. Then, almost to himself, “Twenty-one. You’re the same age she was… Surely, that’s not possible. But… has it been thirty years already?”

Silence. Tommy couldn’t make sense of the question. Thirty years? His wife had been gone two years. Two years, not…

“Wait.” Natalie’s voice changed. “How exactly did you know my mom?”

Finnegan looked at her. Then at the compass still on the table between them. His fingers touched its edge, adjusting its position slightly.

“Your mother was indeed a customer. She and I conducted business, Miss Noonan. Your father was present for the… conclusion of our arrangement.” His eyes moved to Tommy briefly, then back to Natalie. “I had not realized the terms had reached their fulfillment. Two years ago, was it?”

Natalie’s hand came down flat on the table. “Terms? What terms? What are you talking about?”

Tommy opened his mouth, but no words came. He looked at the mirror in his hands, then at Finnegan. Something was wrong. Something he should understand but couldn’t…

“What deal?” Natalie’s voice rose. “What did my mother agree to?”

“Thirty-two years ago,” Finnegan said, “your mother came to this booth. Alone, initially.” He glanced at Tommy. “She came seeking… clarity.”

Natalie’s hands lingered on the edge of the table. “Clarity about what?”

“About whether her affections might ever be reciprocated by a young man of her acquaintance.” Finnegan’s voice took on a more formal quality, the words precise and measured. “She had spent the better part of six months in his company. She had offered him every conventional signal of romantic interest. He had noticed none of them.”

The market sounds seemed to recede slightly. Or perhaps Tommy had simply stopped hearing them.

“Your father,” Finnegan continued, meeting Natalie’s eyes, “does not perceive emotional regard as most people do. He cannot read affection in facial expressions or interpret the significance of another’s attention. It is not that he was indifferent to your mother, Miss Noonan. He was simply… unable to see what she was offering.”

Natalie pushed back from the table. “Wait. What are you…” She turned to Tommy. “Dad, what is he talking about?”

Tommy tried to speak, but the words were not there. His hand went to his hair. He looked down at the compass still sitting between them.

“I am speaking of a limitation,” Finnegan said gently. “One your father has carried his entire life. Your mother understood this, even then. She did not fault him for it. She merely wished to… bridge the gap.”

Natalie stared at her father. Tommy could see her face changing, her expression shifting through something he couldn’t name. Confusion? Hurt? He didn’t know.

“Bridge the gap,” Natalie repeated slowly. “Okay. So what, like… therapy? Communication skills workshop? Couples counseling before they were even a couple?” The jokes were coming faster now, her default when things stopped making sense. “Did she buy him a self-help book? ‘How to Read People for Dummies’?”

“Your mother sought a more… direct solution.” Finnegan reached toward the mirror Tommy had set down. He turned it slightly so it caught the fading light. “I explained to your mother that I possessed a mirror. This mirror, in fact. It reveals what cannot otherwise be seen. It shows the truth of one’s feelings as perceived by another. She wished your father to see her heart. The mirror would show him precisely that.”

“A magic mirror.” Natalie’s voice went flat. “Right. Of course. Makes total sense. Magic mirrors, crossroads bazaars, mysterious old men with fountain pens. This is…” She pressed her fingers to her temples. “I’m having a stroke. That’s what this is. I’m twenty-one and having a stroke.”

“I assure you, Miss Noonan—”

“No, no, I get it now. Brain aneurysm. Burst blood vessel. Any second I’ll wake up in a hospital and a doctor will explain that I hallucinated this whole conversation due to oxygen deprivation or—what’s the word—hypoxia, that’s a good one, very medical…”

“The cost,” Finnegan continued, his voice cutting through her spiral with quiet precision, “was twenty years of her life.”

Natalie stopped mid-breath.

“From fifty-one to seventy-one,” Finnegan continued. “The years one becomes a grandmother. The years one grows old with one’s husband. She offered those years.”

The market sounds receded. Not suddenly. Gradually, like someone turning down a volume dial Tommy hadn’t known was there. Finnegan’s voice remained clear, pronounced, but everything else became muted. The vendors calling to each other, the cars starting in the distance, the evening wind… all of it faded to a dull murmur at the edges of his awareness.

Tommy’s hands clenched on the edge of the table. Twenty years. Melanie had paid twenty years and he’d never known.

“Okay, so…” Natalie’s voice came out strained. “Let me get this straight. Twenty years. She just… gone. Poof. Handed them over like a… a layaway plan on life? Pay now, die later?”

She looked at Tommy. Her face had drained of color.

“Dad?”

Tommy shook his head. Not denial. Just… why didn’t he know what to say?

“Wait.” Natalie’s voice dropped. “Mom died at fifty-one.”

“Two years ago,” Finnegan said quietly. “The terms were that she would surrender her last twenty years. Under that agreement, she lived exactly thirty years after she made the bargain.”

Silence. Tommy felt the words settle in his chest, heavy and suffocating. The terms had reached their fulfillment. That’s what Finnegan had said. The terms. Like it was a contract. Like Melanie’s death had been…

His vision blurred. He blinked hard.

“So you…” Natalie’s voice shook. She was staring at Finnegan now, and Tommy could see her hands trembling on the table. “You killed her. You took her last twenty years and she… she had cancer, she suffered, she…” Her voice cracked. “Are you cancer? Is that what you are? Are you like… some anthropomorphic disease? Magic murder?”

“I am neither architect of illness nor the arbiter of mortality, Miss Noonan.” Finnegan’s tone remained even, formal, but noticeably restrained. “I facilitate exchanges. Your mother offered years. I accepted the terms. But I do not determine the manner in which those terms manifest. That is beyond my province.”

“Beyond your…” Natalie laughed, sharp and bitter. “Right. Sure. You just take the years, wash your hands, not your problem how they disappear. Very clean. Very ethical.”

“I was bound to explain the cost to her in full detail before she accepted. She understood those terms. She chose freely.”

“She was twenty-one!” Natalie’s voice rose. “She was a kid! She didn’t—people don’t understand what twenty years means at my age. They can’t…”

“No,” Finnegan agreed quietly. “They cannot. It is the nature of youth to offer what it does not yet understand. However, your mother stood where you are standing, Miss Noonan, and accepted terms she could not fully comprehend.” He paused. “That is why I am telling you this now.”

Natalie opened her mouth. Closed it. Her anger seemed to collapse inward, leaving only confusion in its wake.

“What did she get?” The question came out small. “What did my mother receive for twenty years of her life?”

“Your father’s love, of course.”

Tommy flinched. The words hit like a physical blow.

“She brought him here to this market the following weekend,” Finnegan continued. “They spent time at various booths. Your mother admired that compass.” He touched it again, shifting it toward her slightly. “And then I presented him the mirror.”

“I don’t…” Natalie’s voice was quieter now, the fight draining from it. “What does that even mean? What’s so special about a mirror?”

Finnegan looked at Tommy. “Would you like to explain it, Thomas?”

Tommy shook his head. He wanted to. Desperately wanted to. But the words wouldn’t come, wouldn’t form into anything that made sense.

“When your father looked into the mirror, Miss Noonan, he saw himself through your mother’s eyes. He perceived her love for him: complete, unconditional, profound. For the first time in his life, he understood how another person felt about him. He saw what had been invisible to him.”

Finnegan’s fingers rested on the edge of the ledger.

“Their relationship began from that moment.” A pause. “And she never told him what she had paid.”

Tommy’s chest constricted. She’d never told him. Twenty years of her life, twenty years she’d traded for him, and she’d carried it alone. Every day of their marriage, every moment with Natalie, every dinner and laugh and quiet evening… all of it purchased with years Melanie would never see.

And he’d never known.

He tried to speak. His throat wouldn’t work.

“Dad?” Natalie’s voice came from somewhere far away. “Is that true? Did you… did you really not know?”

He managed to shake his head. Once. The only answer he could give.

Natalie turned back to Finnegan. Her face had changed again. The anger had been replaced by something rawer. Something Tommy recognized even if he couldn’t name it: grief, fresh and sharp.

“She knew,” Natalie said softly. “She knew she’d only have until fifty-one and she… she did it anyway. She never said anything. She just…” Her voice broke. “Why wouldn’t she tell us?”

“I cannot speak to your mother’s reasons,” Finnegan said. “But I can tell you that she did not regret her choice. She lived fully in the years she had. She loved your father. She loved you. That much I know to be true.”

The world had contracted to the space within Finnegan’s booth. Everything beyond it: the vendors, the parking area, the crossroads themselves… it had all faded into shadow. Tommy was aware of Natalie beside him, of Finnegan across the table, of the mirror and compass between them. Nothing else existed.

Natalie wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “This is insane. Magic mirrors, supernatural deals, twenty-year contracts…” Her voice was shaking. “You expect me to believe this? Any of this?”

She looked up at Finnegan, and her eyes were red but her voice had regained some of its edge. “You know what I think? I think you’re a con artist. A fraud. A carnival barker peddling cheap tragedy to people who’ve already lost enough. These stories about my mom, about magic mirrors… they’re just stories. Fairy tales. Made-up garbage.”

“I assure you, Miss Noonan, I have only spoken the truth.”

“Truth.” She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Right. Because random old men at flea markets are so trustworthy.”

Finnegan regarded her for a long moment. Something shifted in his expression. It wasn’t offense exactly, but a kind of quiet dignity asserting itself.

“I understand your skepticism. I would not expect you to accept my word without verification.” He gestured toward the mirror. “If you doubt my account, you need only confirm it for yourself. Look into the mirror. It will show you what I cannot adequately describe in words.”

Natalie stared at the mirror. Then at her father. Then back at Finnegan.

“You’re serious.”

“Entirely.”

“You want me to look into a magic mirror.”

“I am inviting you to verify the truth for yourself. What you see or do not see will resolve your doubts far more effectively than any further explanation I might offer.”

Finnegan’s hands folded on the table, formal and precise.

“I offer this verification freely, Miss Noonan. No obligation. No cost. Simply… truth.”

Tommy watched his daughter stare at the mirror. It lay on the table next to the compass. Small. Ordinary. Just brass and glass.

“Why then do you hesitate?” Finnegan asked.

Natalie’s jaw tightened. Tommy could not read emotions, but even he understood that look. He’d seen it enough times. She didn’t like to be challenged. She reached, picked up the mirror, and lifted it to face herself.

Tommy watched her posture change. How her spine went rigid. Her breath caught.

What was she seeing?

Natalie saw her own face.

Then the reflection shifted.

Okay, weird. She was still looking at herself. Same dark hair, same expression she’d been wearing for the past hour, irritated with a side of deeply-over-this, but something was off. Wrong angle. Wrong perspective. Like watching herself in someone else’s phone video that she didn’t remember them taking.

She was seeing herself from the outside. From across the table. From…

Oh.

Oh no.

This was how her father saw her.

Not just… okay, not just what he saw when he looked at her face. How he saw her. The difference between a photograph and actually standing in the room. The difference between knowing someone exists and actually perceivingthem, which… okay, that’s getting philosophical, focus…

She braced herself. Okay. Here it comes. The coldness. The distance. The proof that he’d checked out two years ago and never checked back in. That she’d been right all along. That he’d loved Mom and tolerated her and now that Mom was gone the performance was over and she finally seeing the real…

The love hit her like a freight train.

She actually gasped. Actually stumbled back half a step even though she was standing completely still. The mirror stayed steady in her hands but everything else was tilting, the ground was moving.

It wasn’t a feeling.

It was everything. All at once. A tsunami. An ocean trying to fit through a keyhole and the keyhole was her chest and it was too much, it was way too much, she couldn’t…

He loves me like this?

She’d never felt anything like this directed at her. Not from anyone. Not from Mark. Her ex had barely managed “fond” on a good day. Not from her friends. She loved them but this was different. She’d never known anyone could feel this much about another person. Never imagined…

Her father felt this way about her?

Every single day? All the time? Even when she’d been… even when she’d been the worst. Cold and dismissive and giving him one-word answers and making it crystal clear she didn’t want him anywhere near her. Even when she’d rolled her eyes and walked away mid-sentence and said things that were designed to hurt…

Even then?

The love didn’t waver. Didn’t flicker. Didn’t dim. It was just… there. Constant. Like gravity. Like bedrock. The kind of foundation you could build an entire world on if you knew it existed.

But she hadn’t known.

She’d been so sure. So absolutely, self-righteously certain that he’d loved Mom and tolerated her. That she’d only mattered to him through Mom. That once Mom was gone the performance had ended and she was finally seeing what had been there all along.

Nothing. Absence. A man going through the motions because that’s what you do when your wife dies and you’re left with a kid you never really wanted in the first place.

Except that wasn’t…

This wasn’t…

That’s not even close to…

I was so wrong.

Her throat closed up. Her eyes were burning. No. Nope. Not crying. Not crying at a flea market in front of her dad and some weird vendor guy. Not…

The tears came anyway. Hot and fast and completely unstoppable. The reflection blurred but she could still feel it. The weight of his love pressing against her like a physical thing. Like being held even though no one was touching her.

The answer came before she could push it away: Because he couldn’t show it.

And she understood. With this horrible, sinking, awful clarity that the love was only half of what she was feeling.

The other half was his confusion.

It sat underneath the love like a second current running in the opposite direction. Rip tide. Cross-current. Whatever the thing was that pulled you under when you weren’t expecting it. She could feel him looking at her. Staring at her face, at her expression right now in this exact moment… and he didn’t understand what she was feeling.

Couldn’t read it.

She was making a face. She knew she was. Shock, probably. Maybe disbelief. Her eyes were definitely wide and her mouth was open and she could feel the expression from the inside the way you always know what your own face is doing…

But from his side… from the perspective she was experiencing right now through this impossible mirror, it was just… a face. Doing something. Moving somehow. He could see the mechanics: eyes wider, mouth open, probably looking generally distressed, but he didn’t know what it meant.

Was she angry? Scared? Surprised? About to cry? Already crying?

He didn’t know.

He was searching for the answer. She could feel him trying. Reaching. Grasping for comprehension like… it was like trying to solve a puzzle when half the pieces were missing and you didn’t even have the box to show you what the picture’s supposed to be. He was looking at the same information she’d been broadcasting her entire life. Her facial expressions, body language, tone of voice, all of it, but none of it was translating. None of it clicked into meaning.

It was like he was colorblind, but the entire world was color.

Like he was trying to read a book in a language where he only knew every third word. He could see that something was happening. That she was communicating something. But the signal wouldn’t resolve. Wouldn’t become sense.

And it wasn’t just her face right now.

It was every face. Every interaction. Every single time someone said one thing but meant another. And that was, like, constantly. People do that all the time. Every time body language contradicted words. Every time context was supposed to fill in what wasn’t being said out loud…

He missed it.

All of it.

Constantly.

She could feel his frustration like static electricity. Like that feeling when you try to grab smoke. It built and built and went nowhere because there was nothing to grab onto. The understanding he needed stayed just out of reach no matter how hard he tried.

And he was trying.

He was trying so hard.

She could feel the effort like muscle strain. Like physical exhaustion. The desperate reaching. The hope that maybe this time… this interaction, this moment… Tthe hope that this time something would click. Something would make sense. He’d finally know what to say, what do, how to help, how to be what she needed…

But it never came.

The words couldn’t come either.

She could feel him searching for them. Reaching for language the way she reached for words when she was upset. Except for her, words were always just there. Waiting. Ready. She could grab them out of the air and shape them into jokes, arguments, explanations, whatever she needed. Words were her tools. Her default. Her first line of defense.

For him, words scattered like marbles on a hardwood floor.

He’d reached for one and it would roll away. He’d try to catch another and it would slip through his fingers. By the time he managed to grab onto something solid, the moment was already gone. The thing he’d needed to say didn’t fit anymore. Or he’d say it and know—he’d feel—that it was wrong. That she was reacting badly. But he couldn’t tell how it was wrong or what he should have said instead or how to fix it.

How do I tell her?

The question echoed through the connection between them. Desperate. Circular. Going nowhere.

How do I make her understand? How do I show her I love her when I can’t find the words and even if I find them, I don’t know if they’re the right ones?

He’d been asking himself this for two years?

Every single day.

Every interaction. Every time she pulled away or gave him monosyllables or looked at him with that flat, dead expression he couldn’t read.

How do I reach her?

And underneath that question, another one: Why can’t I do this? What’s wrong with me? Why could Melanie do this so easily?

The answer hit her like ice water.

He’d never been able to do it.

Not on his own.

The difference was that Mom had…

Oh no.

Oh no. No. No…

The understanding crashed into her like a second wave and this one was worse, this one was so much worse…

Mom had been translating.

The entire time.

Every interaction Natalie remembered from childhood. Every moment when Dad had seemed present, engaged, understanding. Every time he’d known what she needed or how she felt or what to say… Mom had been there.

Mom had told him.

Whispered in his ear. Nudged him. Given him the words. She’d been interpreting Natalie’s feelings and translating them into something he could actually understand. She’d been the interpreter. The bridge.

She’s excited, honey. Not anxious. Ask her about the exhibit.

She’s upset. You hurt her feelings. You need to apologize.

She’s not mad about the test. She’s afraid you won’t be proud of her.

Every single time. For nineteen years.

And then Mom died. And the translation stopped. And he’d been trying to do it alone for two years and he couldn’t…

Not because he didn’t care. Not because he’d checked out or given up or chosen grief over being her father. Because he literally, physically, actually couldn’t read her.

The same way someone who was colorblind couldn’t see red. It wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t lack of effort. It wasn’t him deciding grief was more important than she was. It was a fundamental deficit in how he perceived the world and she’d spent two years thinking he was cold, thinking he’d abandoned her, thinking he’d stopped trying.

When the truth was he’d been trying harder than ever. He’d never stopped.

He’d been trying desperately. Constantly. Failing over and over and over again. Drowning in confusion while she pulled further and further away. And she’d interpreted every single failure as proof he didn’t care.

What did I…

Her hand was shaking. The mirror was wobbling. She could barely hold onto it. The love and confusion and the desperate helplessness were too much. They were way too much. She couldn’t take it.

And he’d kept trying anyway.

Because he loved her.

Because he didn’t know what else to do.

Because even though he was drowning and confused and helpless he couldn’t just… he wouldn’t just…

I didn’t know.

The thought came out broken. Ashamed.

Dad, I didn’t know. I didn’t understand. I thought you didn’t care. I thought you’d given up. I thought…

She tried to make a joke. Some quip about dramatic revelations or magic mirrors or something, anything to break the tension, to get control back, because this was too much and she needed to…

The joke wouldn’t come. Her wit–, her constant, reliable, always-there wit–, had completely failed her.

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Tried again. Still nothing.

Words had always been her shield, her weapon, her way of processing the world and they were… gone.

Dad, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know.

The reflection shifted again.

Tommy watched his daughter lower the mirror. Tears ran down her face. His wife had told him that sometimes tears meant happiness, but he couldn’t tell. Natalie’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. She was trying to speak but nothing came out.

Had the mirror hurt her somehow? Stolen her voice?

“Your mother served as your father’s interpreter for thirty years.” Finnegan’s voice was quiet, careful. “Without her guidance, he is… adrift.”

“So, what…” Natalie’s voice cracked. She tried again. “This is like the Ghost of Christmas Past or something? Am I supposed to…”

She stopped. Her hand went to her mouth.

Tommy watched her struggle. He wanted to help but didn’t know how. The same way he never knew how.

“Dad, I…” She tried to continue. Failed. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. “You… you feel this way about me?” Her voice was barely a whisper. “All this time?”

He wanted to explain. Wanted to make her understand everything. Wanted her to know how he’d tried, how he’d failed, how much he loved her despite never being able to show it the right way. The words tangled in his throat.

“Yes.” He forced it out. “I tried to…”

He couldn’t finish. Could only nod.

Finnegan tapped the table lightly with one finger. Both Tommy and Natalie looked at him.

“Your daughter now understands,” Finnegan said. “But understanding alone is not enough, is it, sir?”

Finnegan placed his hand on the brass compass that sat beside the mirror. The sounds of the market began to quiet. Not silent, but… muted. His voice, however, remained perfectly clear. In fact, it became Tommy’s entire focus.

“This compass your mother admired was not merely decorative. It provides navigation. Not of geography, but of emotional truth. The holder gains the ability to perceive what lies beneath surface words and gestures.”

Natalie stared at the compass. At the worn brass catching the wan light of evening.

“It has been employed by various individuals across the years,” Finnegan continued. “Showmen. Industrialists. Those who built empires by understanding what others truly wanted, what they truly felt.” He picked up the compass, turned it slowly in his hands. “Your mother was drawn to this object because she recognized its function. She was, in her way, a compass for others.” His eyes moved away from Natalie for a moment. “Particularly for you, Thomas. The object resonated with her nature.”

He set the compass down gently.

Natalie’s voice was smaller now. Raw. “What’s the cost? Twenty years? Like Mom?”

“No, Miss Noonan.” Finnegan’s tone softened slightly. “The cost is determined by the individual, not the object. For you, it would not be years. It would be your capacity for romantic love. You would live a full life. You would experience friendship, family, achievement, but you would never know the partnership your parents shared. Never fall in love. Never wish to.”

The words hung in the air. Tommy noticed the light had changed somehow. Not darker, but the shadows under the brown canopy seemed deeper. The booth felt separate from the market around them. Everything was still visible. Still here but removed. Like they were standing in a bubble of stillness while the rest of the world continued at a distance.

Finnegan slid the compass across the table toward her.

Tommy didn’t like the way Natalie was looking at the compass. The price was too high. Surely, she would know that. But even as he thought it, he saw her hand move toward the compass. Saw her fingers hovering over the brass. She was considering it. She was actually considering this horrible offer.

No. No, she couldn’t. She didn’t understand. She was twenty-one. How could she know what she’d be losing?

As if in response to his thoughts, Finnegan spoke up. “Your mother stood where you are standing. She accepted twenty years without understanding what those two decades would mean. Should you accept these terms, you are offering your capacity for romantic love. I wonder if you truly understand that price. The difference, Miss Noonan, is that your father knows. He knows precisely what you would be surrendering.”

Tommy’s chest tightened. He did know. He knew exactly what Finnegan was asking her to give up. He’d had his years with Melanie. All those years of partnership, of being known, of being loved in the way Finnegan was describing. The kind of love that made everything else bearable.

And Natalie was about to trade that away. For him.

Natalie’s glance moved from Finnegan to her father and back to the compass. Tommy’s heart dropped when he heard her say, “Yes.” She looked at the compass, then at Tommy. “I’ve already tried that whole love thing. It didn’t work. But you… I can’t lose you too.”

Without hesitation, she stepped forward and picked up the compass. Her eyes locked on Tommy as she moved toward him. Before he could say no, she forced the compass into his hands. “Dad, please. We can finally have each other again. It’ll be like it was before.”

Tommy felt the weight of the compass in his hands. The metal was cold. The glass was scratched. The needle was spinning erratically.

Then everything changed.

His daughter stood before him and suddenly he could see. She was desperate. Lonely. The same crushing loneliness he felt. She wanted her father back. Wanted the connection they used to have. Wanted it so badly she’d give up anything.

The usual confusion was gone. The constant second-guessing. The fear that he was reading everything wrong. He just… knew.

He could keep the compass. This could be his life. Always understanding. Always knowing how she felt. Catching all the signals he’d been missing for two years. Not only from her, but from everyone. It would change everything.

But she would never have what he’d had with Melanie. That partnership. Being seen, being known. Being loved anyway. She would never have that. And he couldn’t take that from her. The price…

The price was too high.

He looked at the compass one last time. Then he knew what he had to do. The same certainty he felt seeing her emotions, he felt it about this choice too.

He lifted the compass into the air.

“I would not—” Finnegan began.

Tommy brought it down hard on the mirror. Glass shattered. Brass struck the table with a crack. Shards bit into his palm.

“No!” The word tore out of Tommy, loud enough that heads turned across the market.

Blood welled up from his hand. The compass lay amid the fragments of the broken mirror.

Tommy stumbled backward. He looked at Natalie. He needed to explain, needed her to understand, but the only words he could manage were, “I can’t. I won’t let you give that up. Not for me.”

The sounds of the market place came rushing back. Voices, movement, the distant sound of a car horn. Tommy heard people talking nearby. Several were staring at him.

The outside world had returned.

Finnegan was looking at him. Tommy wasn’t good at reading people, but something in the vendor’s expression had changed. Respect, maybe. He couldn’t have said how he knew—maybe the compass was still working a little—but Finnegan’s opinion of him had shifted.

“Your wife paid so you could see her love,” Finnegan said quietly. “You have paid so your daughter may one day find love of her own.”

Finnegan gave a single, measured nod. Then he produced a dustpan and a small broom and began sweeping up the broken glass.

Tommy looked at Natalie. He could no longer understand what she was feeling. Tears still ran down her face. Were those the happy tears? He didn’t think so. But he couldn’t be sure.

She was staring at his hand. At the blood. Her mouth opened like she was going to speak, then closed. She stepped toward him and took his bleeding hand carefully in both of hers.

Two security guards approached the booth.

“Is there a problem here?,” one of them asked.

Finnegan looked up from his sweeping. “There was a misunderstanding, but no harm has been done.”

The shorter of the guards pointed at Tommy’s hand. “Sir, you’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.” Tommy tried to pull his hand back but Natalie held on. “It’s not bad.”

The guard spoke into his radio. “We need a paramedic at the north end. Near Gancanagh’s booth.”

“Really, I’m okay.”

“What about the broken glass?” the first guard asked Finnegan. “What happened here?”

Tommy watched as Finnegan straightened, holding something. The small oval mirror. Intact. Pristine. No cracks, no damage. Tommy looked down at his hand. Blood was seeping through Natalie’s fingers where she held it. He looked back at the mirror.

“As you can see, sir,” Finnegan said calmly, “all is well. Simply raised voices and a moment of confusion.”

The guard examined the mirror, frowned slightly, then nodded. “Paramedic’s on the way. You should get that looked at.”

Footsteps approached. A young man in a blue uniform, carrying a medical kit.

“Hi there. I’m Matthew.” He crouched beside them, setting his kit down. “Looks like you’ve had a bit of an accident. Can you tell me what happened?”

Tommy opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at Natalie.

“He cut his hand,” Natalie said. Her voice was hoarse. “On broken glass.”

“Okay. Sir, may I take a look?” Matthew reached for Tommy’s hand gently. “Can you make a fist for me?” Good. Any numbness or tingling?”

“No.”

“That’s good.” Matthew pulled antiseptic wipes from his kit. “This is going to sting.”

It did. Tommy focused on the sharp chemical burn, the pressure of the cloth against his palm.

“Not too deep,” Matthew said, studying the cut. “Won’t need stiches. You got lucky.” He pressed gauze against the wound. “Hold this here. Keep pressure on it.”

Tommy held the gauze while Matthew prepared bandaging supplies. That’s when the young man glanced up.

And stopped.

He was looking at Natalie.

The moment stretched. Matthew stared at her. Tommy watched his daughter’s face. Watched as something shifted in her expression.

She smiled.

Tommy had seen her smile hundreds of times in the past two years. Quick, automatic, gone before he could blink. This one was different. It started slower. Lasted longer. Something about her eyes, though he couldn’t have said what. His wife had told him once that real smiles showed in the eyes. He didn’t know if this was one of those. But it looked different.

“Sorry,” Matthew said, shaking his head slightly. He looked back at Tommy’s hand, then up at Natalie again. “I’m Matthew. I, uh… I said that already.”

“Natalie.” Her voice was quieter than usual.

“Natalie.” He said it like he was trying it out. Then he seemed to remember what he was doing. “Right. Let me get this bandaged.” But he was smiling now too. “You okay? That was… that looked intense. Whatever happened.”

“Yeah. I’m…” She paused. “I’m okay.”

Matthew wrapped Tommy’s hand with practiced efficiency, but Tommy noticed how he kept glancing at Natalie. “All set,” he said finally. “Keep it clean and dry. Change the dressing tomorrow. When was your last tetanus shot?”

“I don’t… I’m not sure.”

“You should probably check with your doctor. Just to be safe.” Matthew stood, but didn’t immediately leave. “You’ll be around for a bit? In case I need to check on that?”

Tommy saw his daughter’s mouth curve slightly. “Yeah. We’ll be here.”

Matthew nodded. Picked up his kit. Hesitated. “Good. That’s… good.” He backed away a few steps before turning.

Tommy watched his daughter watch the young man walk away. She was still smiling. That same soft, real smile.

He couldn’t read what she was feeling. Couldn’t understand what had just happened between them. But he knew what he was seeing.

She could still do that. Still smile like that. Still open to someone. She could still begin.

The price he’d paid had been fair. His hand throbbing now, the compass broken, the understanding gone… none of it mattered.

She could still smile like that.

Tommy glanced toward Finnegan’s booth. The vendor was packing items into boxes, but he’d paused. He was watching them. When their eyes met, Finnegan’s expression was… Tommy couldn’t name it. But the vendor gave another small nod.

Then he returned to his packing.

Father and daughter walked across the field toward the parking area. The sun had dropped lower, stretching their long shadows across the worn grass. Most of the cars were already gone. Vendors had finished loading their trucks, calling final goodbyes to each other as engines started and gravel crunched under tires.

Tommy’s hand throbbed beneath the bandage. He flexed his fingers carefully, felt the pull of the gauze, the sting where the glass had cut deepest. He looked at the white wrapping, then at the field around them.

Tomorrow this place would be gone.

They’d pave it over. Build apartments, the signs said. Retail space. The crossroads where he’ d truly seen Melanie all those years ago, where she’d made her bargain, where he’d just made his… it would all be erased. He’d never be able to come back here. Never stand at that booth again.

Not that it mattered. Finnegan would be somewhere else. Crossroads shifted, the vendor had said. But this specific place, with its worn paths and sagging banner. This would all be gone.

Nothing had changed.

Except.

She was walking next to him. Not ten feet ahead like she usually did. Not dragging behind with her phone out, making it clear she didn’t want to be there. She was beside him, matching his pace. Their shoulders almost touching.

That was different. That was new.

She was looking at something in her hand. A small white card. The paramedic, Matthew, he’d said his name was Matthew, had written something on it before they left. His number, probably. Tommy didn’t know what else it might say. Didn’t know if Natalie would call him or throw the card away the moment they got in the car.

But as he watched, she smiled.

Not a big smile. Just a small one. The corner of her mouth turning up as she looked at whatever Matthew had written. Her thumb rubbing across the edge of the card.

Tommy’s chest hurt watching her.

He couldn’t read her expression. Couldn’t tell if the smile meant she liked Matthew or if she was just being polite or if she was thinking about something else entirely. He had no idea what she was feeling. No idea what she needed from him in this moment.

But she was smiling.

Really smiling. Not the tight, fake smile. He thought that one was fake, anyway. She sometimes gave that smile to him. And it wasn’t the flat expression she’d worn for most of the past two years. Her mouth was turned up at the corners. She was looking at the card in her hand, the one the paramedic had given her.

She was smiling. Freely. Easily. And he hadn’t seen that in two years. Not since before Melanie died.

Something in his chest loosened watching her. Relief, maybe. Or hope. He didn’t have the right words for it. But whatever she was feeling looking at that card… looking at what Matthew had written had made her smile like that. Tommy had protected that. That made him feel good.

She could smile at a stranger who’d been kind to her. Could maybe… he didn’t know what came next. Build something? Feel something? He couldn’t understand how people connected, how relationships formed, what all those unspoken signals meant.

But she could do it. Whatever it was. She had that capacity.

Natalie wouldn’t need a mirror. Wouldn’t need to trade years of her life just to be seen. She could just be herself. Smile at someone who smiled back. Let it unfold however it was supposed to unfold.

He didn’t understand how any of that worked. Probably never would.

But he’d made sure she could do it.

That was enough.

His hand throbbed again, sharp enough to make him wince. He looked down at the bandage, at the small spot of red seeping through the white gauze. The paramedic told him to go to urgent care if it didn’t stop bleeding. Tommy wouldn’t. It would heal on its own. Things like this always did.

“Dad?”

He looked at her. Her expression had changed. He didn’t know to what. Couldn’t read it. But she was looking at him, and her voice was soft.

“Yeah?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “I…” She stopped. Looked down at her feet as they walked. Then back up at him. “Thank you.”

Two words. Simple. Clear.

He didn’t know what to say back. Wanted to tell her he loved her, that he’d do it again, that she was worth every moment of confusion and isolation. Wanted to explain everything he’d felt holding that compass, seeing her desperation, understanding what she was willing to give up. Wanted her to know that watching her smile at a stranger had made the whole thing worth it.

But the words tangled in his throat. Knotted up. Wouldn’t come.

So he just nodded.

And reached over with his good hand.

She looked at his bandaged hand, still pressed against his chest. Then at the one he was offering. She took it.

Her hand was warm. Smaller than his. Her grip was firm.

They walked the rest of the way to the car like that. Hand in hand. Not talking. Just walking. She knew he loved her. He knew she understood.

The gap between them was still there. But they were on the same side of it now. Both aware. Both trying. She could still love. Could still smile at strangers the way she’d smiled at Matthew. That was worth it.

That had to be worth it.

They reached the car. Natalie let go of his hand to open the passenger door. She paused before getting in, turned back to look at him, and then gave him a sudden kiss on the cheek.

Her expression was… something. He didn’t know what. Couldn’t read it. Might never know. But she was here and so was he.

“I love you, Dad,” she said.

He started to reply, but he stumbled over the words. Why was this always so hard? Finally, he nodded and said, “I know.”

She paused a moment and then burst into laughter. “Did you just Han Solo me? ‘I know?’” She was shaking her head, still laughing. “That’s… it’s perfect. It’s actually perfect.”

He didn’t know what Han Solo meant. Some movie, maybe? But she was smiling, really smiling, and that made him happy.

She continued to laugh until they got in the car. He started the enginer. Pulled out of the grass parking area onto the gravel road. In the rearview mirror, he could see the field receding. The brown canopy. The crossroads.

He was happy that tomorrow it would all be gone. But this, tonight, would remain. Everything was different. Nothing had changed. And, somehow, impossibly, that was okay.