Fletcher pressed harder on the accelerator when he saw within the furthest depths of his field of vision the brightly lit sign of a neighborhood; it read in Georgian font “Baker’s Mill”. The left-hand blinker clicked to life as Fletcher’s hand spun the steering wheel into the collection of homes.

The headlights of the car set the grayish, glass-laden road into a sparkling frenzy that mimicked the stars of the night sky. The shards of glass looked as if someone shattered a mirror into a fine powder. Fletcher could not help but think of how the wheels of his car collected the glassy dust lying on the road, the revolving rubber being pricked by the thousands of kisses from a mirror’s particles. He readjusted his rearview mirror to find his eyes peering back at him.

The houses that lined the roads had become so familiar to Fletcher as he had lived in them, played video games with his friends in them, read books on the benches outside of them, and replayed the memories of all of those things as he drove beside them. Fletcher looked into his rearview mirror again and found the red taillights had lit the shards of glass in such a way that they appeared to be rubies. The glittering crimson was so rich and beautiful.

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