Looking at herself in the mirror, Charlie sees that she is no longer where she had just been, but in the mirrored room. Turning now, she finds herself alone.
​
The music echoes across the tile floor as if the walls were not bare and the rooms were not empty. It’s possible as if, against the backdrop of the cavernous spaces once adorned with memory and comfort, simply the idea of past inhabitants was enough to fill the rooms that had nothing but air between them and the singular woman, Charlie, standing in their center. The impossibility of everything coming before this moment paralyzes and captivates Charlie as she walks along the mirrored wall, her fingers grazing a reflection that looks 30 years younger. The trees surrounding the house that she sees through the window are in a dense amalgamation of thickness and color, muffling the sounds of a world outside this house. Without uttering a single word, for Bill and the Agent were no longer around to hear it anyway, Charlie walks back to the front door, opens it, and walks out. Not remembering to look back, perhaps not remembering at all.