13
GRAYSON
That night, Dex and I march through a long line of empty rooms. Our goal? Find the magic mirror we saw in our shared vision. Hours pass. In every place we visit, the scent of dust and disuse hangs in the air.
There are no mirrors.
In fact, I’m so concerned about the lack of mirrors, I don’t realize an even bigger problem.
I’m holding Dex’s hand.
I don’t remember linking my fingers around his. Must have been a reflex. Now, I’m hyper-conscious of every place we touch, from between our fingers to the upper ridge of our palms. As we walk along, my mind moves into a dream-like state.
Do I keep holding his hand?
Let go?
Do something else?
All of which is why I barely notice the passage of time. Before I know it, Dex and I reach our last stop, Thornfield’s chapel. It’s a mass
