The old lady peered curiously through the window. Outside it was semi-dark, the Belt of Venus lingering. A pinkish red would soon glow around the horizon. For the elderly woman, it was always the same; time had ceased to function as day and night or dawn and dusk. A hazy light obscured her view of distant objects, tricking her into believing in a continuous sense of time. She had long started to rely on her sense of smell to form her understanding of the world around her. As daybreak approached, she perceived a mist striving to break free from the house, a confined presence adhering to brick walls and furnishings as people released their dreams and sorrows in sleep. With the arrival of morning light, the mist would ascend skyward, reviving her awareness of time. The household remained unaware of when she had started to understand the various segments of the day and her environment in this manner.

In the city, there was no crowing of roosters welcoming the daybreak. From her solitary bedside, she could see through the window a jumble of blurry objects: the chocolate factory, the black expanse of an asphalt road, and poles burdened with tangled wires. Her wrinkled nose could smell their concrete and metallic presence. She recoiled from her surroundings and yearned for a change. As if by magic, the cityscape transformed. Beams of light flickered on, and precious memories reappeared. She no longer found herself living with her daughter amidst a dusty city. Her memories altered her perspective: concrete buildings morphed into small, thatched houses; narrow streets turned into babbling brooks; and nestled amongst the scene, a black car metamorphosed into a tar-covered boat, ready for a journey. It was her husband who rowed it downstream, vanishing for days. One night, he returned, bearing the familiar scents of fish, mud, and water hyacinth.

The fantasy invigorated her as she closed her eyes and weaved her world with the scents of her bygone days. She entered a barn, redolent with the scent of winnowed rice, scurrying rats, and skittering termites. She had resided there for ages, until the transformation of thatch into concrete began. Immersed in her thoughts, she hardly noticed the whistle outside. She saw villagers heading toward the southern part of the village. In the paddy field surrounded by palmyra trees, a porcupine had been spotted. Brave men encircled the frightened animal despite its desperate snorting. It spread its quills like a crescent moon until someone struck it on the head with a cudgel. Staggering around the assailant, its head bloodied. Eyes wide, the porcupine steadied itself like a hard-won trophy. No one lamented its demise since porcupines were considered a nuisance. In the darkness, she caught the scent of its blood-streaked body; she listened to its cries, its anguished voice, its desperate plea for the right to breathe. She didn’t know when the scent faded, gradually enveloping her in a loneliness as profound as her age. With terror-filled eyes, the porcupine invited her to wallow in painless memory, to enter a bottomless abyss, to exist in a world devoid of oxygen.

She inhaled deeply through her long, aquiline nose, quietly rising from her bed and passing a tall mirror, oblivious to her existence. When she looked at the mirror, an unfamiliar apparition with onion-white hair stared back at her, frightening her. The apparition stripped away her identity, her sense of self, prompting a loud shriek. Her daughter hurried in from the next room, fearing the worst—an end to her mother’s fading memories. She found her mother crumpled on the floor like a discarded sheet of paper, weeping as feebly as a dying patient. The daughter carefully embraced her mother and helped her back into bed while the old woman continued to grapple with the specter she had just seen in the mirror.

The old woman tightly clasped her daughter’s hands, inhaling their scent as if they were sacred relics. Life persisted; she could feel the warmth of blood coursing through her swollen veins. The universe resumed its rhythm, and the scent of her daughter’s hands restored her sense of time. She recounted her mirror experience to her daughter. The daughter understood her mother’s fear and explained that she had been deceived by her own reflection. The old lady found it hard to believe. How could she not recognize her own reflection?

Her daughter helped her out of bed, guided her to the mirror, and gently patted her shoulder. In a reassuring voice, she said, “Mother, look: It’s you! It’s your own reflection! There’s nothing to be afraid of.” She stood behind her mother, her hands on her mother’s shoulders, providing warmth and support. What kind of image do you see when your own reflection doesn’t make sense to you? The old lady wondered. She realized she had become a phantom of her once tangible existence on earth.

Outside the cityscape stirred from its sleep. Sparrows chattered incessantly, crows scavenged among the debris, and people filed into the maw of the chocolate factory. The old lady approached the window and gazed out once more. Soon she would erase everything and replace the urban landscape with her own timeless elements.