Alexa Daskalakis
Notes on what it means to be human—
written from the edge of time, memory and silence.
The City With No Reflections
You didn’t notice until your third day: there were no reflections.
Not in storefront windows. Not in puddles after rain. Not in the mirrored elevator panels or the chrome hand dryers in hotel bathrooms. Just light, bent slightly. Like something had been removed and the glass forgot how to say so.
You assumed it was a design choice. Some experimental coating. A city-wide aesthetic. Until you saw a man fix his tie in front of a bank window that showed nothing. He adjusted the knot, nodded to himself, and walked away. As if he’d seen it. As if everyone saw what wasn’t there.
You tried your phone. The screen showed your face just fine. But the camera app froze every time you opened it in public. Not crashed—frozen. Like it was waiting for something to arrive.
You asked a woman at a café if the mirrors in the restroom were out.
She said, “What mirrors?”
You said, “The ones above the sinks.”
She looked at you for a moment, then said, “Oh. I don’t usually look.”
No one else seemed concerned.
You stayed longer than planned. Not because you liked it. But because it felt like the kind of place you were supposed to figure out before leaving. You started checking every surface. Glasses, spoons, car windows, phone booths. Nothing. Not even in the lake near the old art museum. You tossed in a coin and watched it fall without distortion.
On your last day, you stood in a high-rise lobby lined with mirrored columns. You walked the length of the floor. No shadow beside you. No echo of your shape. You stopped near the far wall, where the reflection should have been strongest.
Someone was there.
They were facing you, but not copying you.
They didn’t move.
You turned and left.
You never told anyone. You didn’t take a picture.
But you haven’t seen your reflection since.