Tarkan first saw the mirror when he was fourteen.

His father had taken him to the tribe’s annual trading trip.

The town’s shops were dazzling—rows of trinkets and treasures glittering under the sun.

“This one’s special,” the merchant said, holding up the mirror. “I’ll give you a good deal.”

The Blind Shaman shook his head, his voice firm. “We cannot bring this back to the tribe.”

But Tarkan’s pleas were relentless. His father, worn down by his son’s desperation, gave in.

And so, the mirror came back with them.

Tarkan hung his precious treasure at the entrance of their tent. It gleamed, catching the light, drawing every eye.

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The tribe gathered there, morning and evening, drawn to its reflection.

They couldn’t get enough of watching themselves, of seeing their own faces, their movements mirrored back at them.

They stared, and stared, and stared.

With every glance, the mirror took a piece of them.

The tribe’s joy, their spirit, their prosperity—all of it flowed into the mirror.

Laughter became rare. The children stopped playing. The animals grew thinner, their milk sour.

The Blind Shaman warned them, but no one listened. They couldn’t pull themselves away.

One night, under a moonless sky, the Blind Shaman crept into Tarkan’s tent.

He took the mirror from where it hung, its surface still glowing faintly with stolen light.

Without hesitation, he carried it to the river.

The current was cold and swift, but the Shaman didn’t falter. Holding the mirror tightly, he stepped into the water.

As he sank into the depths, the mirror went with him, its glow fading into the dark.

By dawn, the mirror was gone.

And the tribe, though shaken, began to remember what it felt like to laugh.