Alfred had little in the way of luxuries. His cottage was a tumble-down thing, crawling with leaves and spiders. He worked eight hour days, toiling as a laborer. His muscles were the only thing he had still worth anything. The world had moved on and he’d never managed to catch up. Five centuries and he’d barely learnt to read. There just hadn’t been time.
But he had his one retreat: the evening cottage, tucked away inside the mirror. After a hard day’s work, he’d step into the empty silence, amongst mirror-image flowers fluttering in a backwards wind.
Word Count: 97
This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Nathan Sowers for providing the prompt photo!