The Obsidian Mirror

I stepped inside from the garden twilight, easing the heavy patio door shut against the chill. Upon the low oak table, a palm-sized oval of black obsidian lay dull beneath a fine dusting of cedar pollen. Beside it rested a square of folded linen. Setting my dormant lightsaber flat against the wood, I drew the cloth close with both hands. In slow, patient circles, I buffed the dark volcanic glass, easing away the pale grit until the mineral gleamed smooth and deep. When I lowered my palms, the polished stone caught the evening room, resting like a tranquil, quiet pool.