"Years ago, I lived with my old father in an antique house. The building was pretty old and as far as I knew, it had always belonged to my father’s ancestors and in the deep of the building’s cellar, there had always been… well… those mirrors.
I had never known my mother, because she had died when she was giving me a birth, and although I was half- orphan, I didn’t find my life nor tedious, nor empty, simply because I had my father and we comprehended each other. I had no other relatives. They had disappeared God- knows where. He was my only family and in the hard times of war, he was the only person I could trust boundlessly. I loved him like a hell.
My father fancied a lot our mirrors and he was always speaking about them in an astonishment, and as I grew older, I saw what he meant because none of them really reflected the image it should have reflected. I would sneak into the cellar every now and then and I grew on one of the mirrors shortly. My father used to say that one day, I will find my own mirror, as he had. Only, I could say, that in the dad’s mirror was reflected some scene which my dad understood and I cannot for all the tea of China figure out what mine reflected.
But before I could run towards my father and tell him that I had made sense of the reflection, the war took him away from me. It was fast, unexpected and very painful. He died in my arms, breathing heavily. Just before he breathed his last, he whispered me, ‘‘Mirrors are metaphors of possible worlds. Don’t forget it. ‘‘"

PRÁCE BYLA UVOLNĚNA BEZ NÁROKU NA HONORÁŘ