**Rebuilt from Scraps**
“You broke my mirror, so now you owe me seven years,” hissed Reginald, owner of the Arcanum Gallery, leaning so close that Alice caught the sharp scent of his peppermint breath.
Fragments of Venetian glass crunched under her shoes, each shard flashing like a camera’s glare under the gallery’s spotlights. A lump of dust clogged her throat—she could endure anything, except the sound of splintering glass when she knew the frame alone cost a year’s wages.
“I’ll pay,” she breathed.
“With what? Those crooked displays of yours? From today, you work for free until the debt’s cleared.”
Fifteen years ago, little Alice sat in her grandfather’s mirror workshop, catching glimpses of herself in scraps of silvered glass. He’d hand her apple-flavoured candy floss and say, “Glass holds the truth. Sometimes it’s frightening to look, but if you dare, you’ll understand yourself better.” When he died, her mother sold the shop. Alice left for London to study design, sketching window displays for department stores. That’s where Reginald found her—tall, charming, promising a solo exhibition in exchange for “a few rough drafts.”
At first, he called her his “spatial muse,” kissing her hand after each successful project. Then came the “friendly” critiques: “The glare’s too harsh—soften it.” Unpleasant, but fair. By spring, his tone shifted: “You can’t grasp texture if you botch the measurements.” Penalties followed for “wasted materials.” Alice soothed herself: “He’s strict because he sees potential.”
That June evening, she rearranged podiums for a new exhibit. By the entrance stood Reginald’s prized possession—an 18th-century mirror, its frame gilded like lace. A centimetre—just one—and the trolley clipped the edge. A crack like a gunshot. Silence. Then a rain of shards.
“Do you realise this was slated for a royal auction?” Reginald’s shouts drowned out the alarms.
“I’ll replace it,” Alice muttered, sweeping glittering dust into a bin. “I’ll find restorers—”
“Two hundred thousand pounds, in case you’re curious. Or seven years of service. Your choice.”
In the gallery’s basement, where WiFi couldn’t reach, Alice assembled installations from his blueprints: lens-lamps, prism-tables. Reginald stamped his name on each. At night, she’d patch photos of the shattered mirror into digital collages, hunting for a face in the chaos.
Once a week, Laura, a potter from the neighbouring studio, dropped by.
“Where’ve you been? You’ve gone silent online.”
“Paying a debt,” Alice deflected.
Laura eyed her hunched shoulders, scraped palms.
“You know how stained glass is made, right? Heated till it burns, then shocked cold.”
“Lovely metaphor,” Alice smirked.
“Metaphor aside, my storeroom’s full of broken ceramics. Take what you need. Piece by piece, you’ll make something new.”
That autumn, curator Clive Shaw visited for the “Luminous City” festival, seeking artists for a nocturnal performance at the old train yard. Reginald showcased his portfolio; Clive nodded politely but lingered by a basket of glass shards.
“Who worked on these?”
“Scraps,” Reginald snapped. “Worthless.”
Alice lifted her head.
“Not to me.”
Outside, Clive approached her.
“Show me the sketches you’ve shown no one.”
“If we talk, I’ll be sacked.”
He handed her a card.
“Then meet me where he isn’t. Tomorrow, 8 PM, Platform 13.”
The platform stood empty, rusted clocks ticking overhead. Alice unrolled a 3D model on her tablet: a colossal fractured mask, its mirrored labyrinth echoing taunts—“clumsy hands,” “debtor,” “nothing.” Near the centre, words dissolved, leaving viewers’ reflections bare.
Clive exhaled.
“This isn’t art. It’s a 360-degree rebellion. Let’s do it.”
“I’ve no budget, no materials—everything belongs to the gallery.”
“Materials can be scavenged. But permission… that’s your call.”
For weeks, they gathered discards: hotel mirrors, Laura’s pottery shards, flea-market frames. Nights, Alice cut glass behind an abandoned factory, sanding edges raw. Laura fired ceramic puzzles until they held.
One midnight, Reginald appeared.
“Heard you’re building nonsense at the yard. Stealing my mirrors?”
“Yours? The ones I broke? I’ve paid.” She thrust receipts at him—every penny from months of instant noodles sent to a restorer piecing the mosaic frame.
“Without my name, you’re nobody. Play artist all you like—after the lawsuit, you’ll be a meme.”
“Try me. Judges love spectacle.”
Opening night. Ultraviolet light flooded the derelict station. A queue snaked along the tracks; headphones played whispers of Reginald’s rants, recorded in secret. Alice’s hands trembled.
“Breathe, captain,” Laura whispered.
Inside, the labyrinth smelled of resin and fresh dust. Visitors hesitated, wary of biting reflections. Words flickered: “drab moth,” “grey mouse,” “seven-year debtor.”
At the mask’s heart—a circle of white light. No cracks, no slurs. Just stillness.
Applause started slow, as if relearning how to clap. Clive stepped forward.
“Author, reveal yourself.”
Alice ascended. Light hit her jacket’s mirror scales, fracturing into rainbows.
Then—Reginald, storming in.
“Those shards are mine! She stole the project!”
Clive lifted a mic.
“Sir, you’re claiming these words?” He gestured to the walls.
Reginald blanched.
“Slander! Editing!”
The crowd laughed. Someone shouted, “Welcome to your reflection!” Phones flashed, capturing his fury. Reporters circled; the word “abuse” trended by dawn.
A month later, Alice signed with the Modern Art Museum. “Portrait in Pieces” toured nationally. Laura launched “Mend & Make,” teaching kids to craft beauty from breaks.
One autumn day, after seeing children to their bus, Alice stepped outside. Sunlight bounced off the museum’s glass doors.
Clive approached with two lattes.
“Reginald told the press he’s on ‘sabbatical.’”
“Let him hunt his reflection,” Alice said, studying her tired but whole face in the cup.
“They say cracked glass has two fates—tossed or turned to stained glass. You chose well.”
“I’m just not afraid of the truth anymore.”
She recalled the moment the Venetian glass shattered—shame, fear, the crunch. Life had seemed split. But that’s where the mosaic began.
Golden dusk splintered across the museum’s facade. Alice whispered, as if to her grandfather:
“I’ve paid the mirror in full. Those seven years? They’re mine now.”
**Later**
“Portrait in Pieces” reached Prague. Visitors wept. A wheelchair-bound man murmured, “Now I see what I am.”
Alice’s sketchbook no longer trembled in her hands. Once “clumsy,” they were now “an artist’s.”
A journalist asked, “When did you realise pain could transform?”
Alice replied, “Freedom isn’t escaping control. It’s claiming the cracks.”
She received a letter. No return address. Familiar handwriting:
*You paid. More than owed.
In a way, I was your mirror too—only my cracks ran inward.
Good luck.
R.*
Alice pressed the paper flat, then framed it with a tiny shard.
*Even this can be remade.*
She bought her grandfather’s village home. Now, children learn vitrage where he once worked. Above the door, a sign reads:
*THE MIRROR WORKSHOP*
*HERE, PAIN BECOMES LIGHT.*
*HERE, CRACKS BEGIN THE PATTERN.*