Vol 2: The Duck Who Knew Too Much

Joe’s mirror has never been particularly helpful. It doesn’t offer affirmations. It doesn’t remind him to moisturise. What it does do, however—without warning and with great enthusiasm—is broadcast baffling scenes from other lives with the casual menace of a Victorian fortune teller and the clarity of a high-end camcorder. It never asks permission. It just... turns on. And this morning, it turned on a duck. Not in the scandalous sense. In the mallard in a smoking jacket reading The Times sense. Which, frankly, is worse.

It started innocently enough: a lounge bathed in golden light, jazz drifting through the dust, and a man—chin tilted, cigarette balanced like a punctuation mark—lounging on a green leather sofa. Joe sipped his tea and nodded. “Ah yes. Tuesday.” The mirror hummed, flickered, and then boom: duck. Centre frame. Mid-editorial.

The duck didn’t quack. Of course not. That would’ve been predictable. Instead, it turned the page of its newspaper with a level of disdain only achieved by retired diplomats and British cats. Joe squinted. The duck wore tweed. It had elbow patches. It radiated a vibe best described as Headmaster Energy. And it knew things. Oh, it knew things.

It knew Joe hadn’t paid that parking ticket. It knew who ate the last Hobnob. It possibly knew how the universe ends, but was too polite to bring it up before breakfast. The duck looked up, one brow-feather arched, as if to say, “Really, Joseph? Jazz again?” Joe adjusted his collar, vaguely ashamed, and wondered if the duck had been there all along.

The mirror offered no clue. It never does. It simply sharpened the focus, leaned into the moment, and let the duck judge him in glorious, smoke-tinged silence. The duck, unimpressed by the human condition, resumed reading. Somewhere, a vinyl crackled. Somewhere else, Joe’s grip on reality gently loosened.

Eventually, Joe stood up, crushed his cigarette with the solemnity of a man leaving a one-sided therapy session, and said, “Right. I’m putting the kettle on. You want anything?” The duck didn’t answer. It was halfway through the financial section. Naturally.

Thus concluded another dispatch from the mirror that refuses to explain itself, prefers ducks to people, and delights in showing Joe just enough madness to keep things interesting.

Stay tuned for Vol 3: The Moth Who Read My Mind