Margen
The hallway mirror ran one second late. Marta discovered it on a Tuesday, while hanging up her bag: her reflection kept its arms down an instant too long, like badly synced dubbing. She tested it with sudden gestures, flicking the light on, waving at herself very fast. Always that one polite second.
She got used to it, the way you get used to leaks and neighbours. She even grew fond of it: leaving home meant leaving someone behind, staying.
One foggy morning, the reflection adjusted its coat collar before it had occurred to her to touch hers. Then it stopped, looked at her, and patted its left pocket, twice, slowly.
Marta found her keys on the dresser, where she never left them. As she closed the door she heard, inside, the click of the light switch she hadn't turned off.
Since then she doesn't say goodbye when she leaves. She says thank you.