The little studio had always felt larger when she was alone.
It was only the Ryan house extension in Artane—four walls, a piano, a synthesizer, cables that seemed to multiply overnight—but to twenty-four-year-old Enya it was a cathedral. The August evening sun slanted through the small window, painting amber bars across manuscript paper scattered over the desk. Somewhere downstairs a kettle clicked off. The house breathed with familiar life.
Up here, though, there was only silence.
Or at least there should have been.
Enya tapped her pencil against the edge of the manuscript.
One note.
Then another.
Neither felt right.
She sighed, rubbed her temple, and looked at the half-finished melody she'd been chasing for the better part of an hour.
"Come on..."
Nothing.
Instead of hearing music, her mind kept wandering somewhere entirely unhelpful.
She wasn't normally vain. At least she didn't think she was. But lately she'd become strangely aware of herself. Maybe it was all the television appearances. Maybe it was people beginning to recognise her. Maybe it was simply being twenty-four.
Whatever the reason, she'd caught herself looking in mirrors more often than she cared to admit.
She glanced toward the old oval mirror propped against the opposite wall.
"Oh, stop it," she muttered to herself with an embarrassed smile.
Compose.
Not preen.
She reached for another sheet of manuscript paper.
Then stopped.
The mirror...
...was glowing.
Not reflecting sunlight.
Glowing.
A ring of blue-white light swirled across the glass like stars caught in water.
Enya slowly stood.
"...Hello?"
The room offered no answer.
She took one cautious step.
Then another.
The reflection she'd expected—her striped jacket, tousled dark hair, wide green-grey eyes—simply wasn't there anymore.
Instead...
A woman.
Older.
Much older.
The same eyes.
The same smile.
The same unmistakable face.
But softened by time rather than diminished by it.
Her dark hair was shorter, her features lined gently with experience, dressed in a floral blouse that somehow suited her perfectly.
She looked... radiant.
Enya's hand flew to her mouth.
"No..."
The older woman seemed just as startled.
They stared at each other through impossible glass.
Enya instinctively reached out.
The woman in the mirror did the same.
Their fingertips stopped inches apart.
"That's..."
She swallowed.
"...me."
Her knees suddenly felt weak.
Her gaze darted over every detail, searching desperately for differences.
The eyes.
Still bright.
The smile.
Still mischievous.
The warmth.
Still unmistakably hers.
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
It was half hysterical.
Half delighted.
"Oh, feck me..."
She covered her face.
"...I'm still hot at sixty-five?"
The absurdity of the thought made her laugh harder, even as tears began gathering in her eyes.
It wasn't vanity.
Not really.
It was relief.
She'd never realised she'd been afraid.
Afraid that time might erase her.
Instead...
There she was.
Still herself.
Still beautiful.
Still...
Enya.
The woman in the mirror smiled knowingly, almost as though she'd heard every thought.
Before either of them could move—
"Enya?"
The studio door opened.
Roma Ryan stepped inside carrying two mugs of tea.
"I thought you might need a—"
The blue light vanished.
The mirror became an ordinary mirror once again.
Enya spun around so quickly she nearly knocked the chair over.
"Roma!"
Roma blinked.
"...You alright?"
"I..."
Enya looked back.
Nothing.
Only her own bewildered reflection.
"I saw..."
She laughed nervously.
"This is going to sound completely mad."
Roma set the mugs down.
"When has that ever stopped you?"
Enya managed a weak smile.
"There was... someone in the mirror."
Roma folded her arms.
"Someone?"
"Me."
A pause.
"...Older."
Another pause.
"Much older."
Roma didn't laugh.
Didn't roll her eyes.
Didn't ask whether she'd been working too hard.
Instead she walked over and gently squeezed Enya's shoulder.
"So?"
"So?"
Enya stared at her.
"I just saw myself forty years from now!"
"And?"
"I..."
She searched for words.
"I looked..."
She felt herself blushing.
"...rather nice."
Roma burst into warm laughter.
"Is that what's upset you?"
"It isn't upsetting!"
"It sounds like you're having an existential crisis because Future You aged gracefully."
Enya couldn't help smiling.
"When you put it like that..."
Roma leaned against the piano.
"Tell me honestly."
Enya hesitated.
"I think..."
She looked back at the mirror.
"...I was frightened."
"Of getting older?"
She nodded.
"I didn't even know I was."
Roma was quiet for a moment.
Then she picked up one of the sheets of unfinished manuscript.
"You know what I noticed?"
"What?"
"This."
She held up the melody.
"You've spent the last week trying to perfect these eight bars."
Enya groaned.
"Don't remind me."
"You care because you want people to remember them."
"I suppose."
Roma smiled.
"If what you saw was real..."
She tapped the manuscript gently.
"...then yes, you'll still have your looks to surprise yourself with."
Enya laughed through lingering tears.
"But I rather think you'll have something even better."
"The music."
"The music."
Roma laid the manuscript back on the piano.
"Faces change."
She shrugged.
"Even beautiful ones."
"But songs..."
Her smile grew softer.
"...songs don't grow old."
Enya looked at the empty mirror one last time.
For a fleeting second she almost thought she saw the older woman wink.
Then there was only her own reflection again.
Twenty-four.
Confused.
Inspired.
Hopeful.
She sat back down at the piano.
Placed her fingers on the keys.
The melody she'd been chasing all afternoon suddenly arrived as naturally as breathing.
Roma smiled into her tea.
"There she is."
The first notes floated through the little studio in Artane.
Outside, Dublin carried on exactly as before.
Inside, although neither woman could possibly have explained why, the future suddenly felt less frightening—
and infinitely more beautiful.