Antique Realism: A Monologue of a Bronze Mirror

I was born in a fiery workshop a thousand years ago, my form shaped by the hammers and flames of the artisans. My surface is smooth, mirror-clear like lake water, while the back is engraved with intricate patterns—birds, clouds, and symbols of good fortune and longevity. My existence is not simply decorative; my mission is to reflect—not just the face of man, but the spirit and symbolism of our times.

I once spent time with a beautiful woman. She was from an aristocratic family. Every morning, she would gently adjust her hair in my mirror. Every time her face appeared in my mirror, I saw her smile, her sorrow, her youth, and the splendor of her life. Her eyes sparkled in the mirror, and as she lowered her head, I silently recorded her thoughts and daily routine. She was so gentle, and I became her constant companion, day after day.

As time passed, her life grew increasingly busy. Her marriage and her status transformed me into something more than just a personal possession. I became a symbol of her status, a bearer of the family honor she represented. Whenever she stood in front of the mirror, I reflected not only her face but also the responsibilities and mission she shouldered. And in those gentle years, I began to understand the meaning of my existence—not just to reflect her beauty, but to protect her unspoken faith and emotions.

However, fate is always unpredictable. On a cold winter night, she and her husband left their homeland for a distant land. She carefully wrapped me up and placed me in a wooden box, hiding me forever in a dark corner. From then on, I lost the warm light that once filled my heart, hearing only the creaking of the wood and the occasional vibration within. I slept for years, never to see the light again, until one day, I was awakened again and pulled out of my dark cage.

By then, thousands of years had passed. Archaeologists carefully excavated me from the ancient soil, their eyes filled with curiosity and wonder. The woman who once was had long since vanished into the long river of history, but I still carry her memory. The traces of time have left mottled marks on my back, each scratch a medal of time. I still remember her face clearly, the warmth she felt, but now, I no longer belong to her. I have become a part of history, carrying the memory of civilization.

Today, I sit quietly in a museum glass case, stared at by countless strangers. They are no longer her gentle gaze, but the fleeting glances of strangers. I no longer reflect her face, but the faces of these visitors. Under the shadows of modern light, my face remains smooth, but it no longer possesses the warmth it once possessed. I have become a witness to an era, a vessel of memory.