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Halit Duman looked deeply at his reflection in the hallway mirror. He would be leaving this house soon for the last time.

"Life is like drawing random numbers from one to six and taking a few tokens from a black bag. The tokens say: Take one, two is more than you need, bastard, take five lady, give four back, please, you already took three, sir, etc. Then you unexpectedly draw 'return all.' It happens perhaps at a cocktail party, or when crossing the street on the way back from school, or here when you have a glass to your lips. It happens when the most provocative ideas flit around in your mind, and you suddenly freeze to death."

That's what Hallos had said years ago at a dinner party, given in this very house, when everyone had been imbibing his own particular vice. They had all applauded his brilliance. It was time to "return all." "Return all" is a serious system. Even with the impossibility of imagining the point in which you can't dream anymore, you have no right to object. He didn't want to be a killjoy, but he couldn't stop thinking of the unfairness of it all.

His reflection smiled back at him with a skeptical sadness in his bright blue eyes. He sighed, as he combed his silver hair back. He was ready. Suddenly, he froze on the spot. An idea was taking hold of his brain like an octopus as he tried to reach the door. The idea wasn't fully developed yet; it was like the air current one feels at the edge of a tunnel due to a fast train whizzing by.

He looked at the half-opened door at the end of the hallway. A bright triangle was dazzling at the door a sliver of the hot August sun. The golden triangle had an unusual, proud look as if it were a guarantee against the hallway's shattering into a thousand pieces. As Halit Duman stood mesmerized by the triangle, he heard voices from outside.

"It'll take your old man an hour to get ready. You'll see. We'll die of heat out here." This was his nephew; he could distinguish his sassy, ever-complaining voice anywhere.

Halit repeated, "your old man," with disgust. "Your impatience is not with me, but with this house. You just want this house," he murmured.

As an only child, his nephew had been raised to be a spoiled man. He was disrespectful and despicable-a total failure as a human being. He had always known that his Uncle Halit put up with him because of his mother, but he still pretended to be the perfect, flattering nephew. All because of the inheritance.

Halit's eyes suddenly widened at his reflection in the mirror. "Voices," he murmured. How was he able to hear those voices so clearly, as if they were right next to him? Lately, he had started to lose his hearing. He couldn't even hear the doorbell, which was loud enough to be heard two blocks away.

"You know we have to be at the hospital at four this afternoon."

Besides the conversation between his sister and nephew, he was hearing the voices of people on the street, cars, and even the crickets chirping. When all the houses on the street had had gardens, there were orchestrations of millions of crickets in the evenings. Nowadays, only a few sing their songs in the remaining gardens. The closest garden is at least one hundred and fifty feet away. His ultra-sensitive senses felt strange. Or was this . . . ? Will the end take place in the same sort of cocoon he was born in? Maybe that is best.

"Yes, sir. I would like to draw another token. You heard right. One last token." He chooses the "return all" token again. And the time is now. The waiting is over then? Where is the applause? You all know I want applause as I make my exit!

Well, Hallos, maybe you still have time for the final applause after all, he thought.

His tired but still healthy heart beat stronger than ever. His painful ankles reminded him of just how long he had been standing in front of the mirror.

"He is parting from the house he has lived in for eighty years. Don't be hateful!" He liked the word, "parting." He said, "Atta girl, sister." She finally said something right. I wish she raised that bastard properly.

Actually, squaring accounts would have been a better expression than parting. In other words, it was going over old memories. Good old memories. He felt the train coming fast in the tunnel, approaching him. But were there still any memories he hadn't yet remembered? Were there any folders in his memory archives that he hadn't yet reached? Were they emerging? Once he had read that when a predator bit a dinosaur, it took thirty seconds for the dinosaur to feel the pain because of its bulk and primitive nervous system. Perhaps something happened years ago. Something very important and he had forgotten it. But how could he forget such an important thing? He had always been proud of his super memory. But he must have forgotten something. Otherwise, how could this be explained? He must have wanted to forget it, and finally did. Actually, it was the feeling of having wanted to forget that disturbed him. "Perhaps it wasn't anything important," he mused. He remembered how much he had cried for the yellow marble that he lost seventy years ago. Will anyone tell him where it is now? Perhaps his memory archive manager, who had made him search for the yellow marble everywhere for days, had finally done his job properly, although a bit late while cleaning up the memory files. "Where have you been madam or sir? Why didn't you give the results of this memory report and reveal the hiding place on a spring night while I was sprightlier?"

You got that right, Hallos, he thought.

The reflection of his forehead wrinkled as his words evoked memories. If these thoughts aren't conjecture during death, what are they? He started feeling the crush of suspicion.

No, dear Halit Duman. The joke is over. Don't deceive yourself. The voices aren't coming from outside but inside. Forget about hoping now. You will leave this place in a second and, at most, in a few months you will die on the white linens of a luxury hospital. You've already had two heart attacks. The third one is on the way. Your suitcase with your pajamas, a few personal belongings and some books that you may not get to finish are already placed in the trunk of the car. The doorman's hand at the hospital door must be itchy, waiting for the tip from your sister. Today is the day your scumbag nephew has long awaited. Once the earthworms begin to consume you, a contractor will take the house and build a complex as ugly as the neighboring ones. Because of its prime location, the complex will bring a good price. So you need to know it is not only the doorman whose hands are itching. All hands are waiting for you to take the stage for the final Ave Maria.

"Hands," he mumbled. "Where is the applause? It will be very disappointing without it. Maybe we will meet again. Take good care of him," he whispered to his reflection.

When his eyes were drawn to the lion and serpent figures engraved on the wooden mirror frame, he began to remember something. "The mirror!" he whispered. "Of course!"

He looked at the animal figures again, and caressed a reddish-brown figure. His memory flashed back to the day he bought it. Whenever he remembered that day and the man who sold it, he always felt uncomfortable about something. Although he had wanted to go somewhere else, he had found himself in the antique quarter of the market that day. His legs literally took him there, as if of their own free will. It was raining heavily and he got very wet as he didn't have an umbrella. But instead of sheltering under the store's awning, he had preferred to continue walking. All of a sudden, he saw a banknote in the street and hastened to the banknote, which was taped in the middle.

He looked around guiltily, but no one was paying him any attention as the rain continued to pour in torrents. He turned the corner to a side street. He had never been there before. He knew the area well and was sure he hadn't seen this street before. There were several antique shops lined up next to each other. It was a long, narrow street. He couldn't see the end of it from where he was.

This street had somehow hidden itself from him. While strolling down this newly discovered place, he saw a mirror among the many knick-knacks and old gadgets. It was like meeting an old friend you haven't seen in years. He had let his fingers trace the serpent as it wound around the lion figures on the mirror's frame and felt a need to buy this mirror.

The little second-hand shop's owner appeared at his side. This person had a friendly, sincere smile on his face. He felt like he had met him before. The man said, "You are very lucky, sir. An old lady brought this mirror in ten minutes ago," and gestured to a porter at the street corner.

Semra will be crazy for this, Halit thought. She loves such . . . and stopped. He had forgotten for a second that his wife was in a coma at the hospital. She was dying, and she wasn't going to need mirrors anymore.

While all these thoughts wove through his mind in a flash, the shop owner looked at him sympathetically. He didn't have the features of the scavengers, who cheat their customers at every opportunity. He looked more like a national lottery vendor-understanding, talkative, moderately joking. Like an extinct type of gentleman. He liked this man. He remembered the strangeness of how confident the man had been about Halit buying the mirror, as he hung it on the hallway wall.

"How much do you want for it?"

The man smiled with an expression of hesitance that meant some highly desirable pieces came with extraordinarily undesirable prices.

"Sixty dollars. Not a penny less."

Sixty bucks was a lot of money at the time, but the mirror was worth it. Actually the mirror's frame itself was worth more than that. He would have been willing to pay a hundred or even two hundred dollars for it. He knew his wife would be crazy about this mirror. Hopefully Semra would live to see it. "All right then. I'll buy it. Wrap it up."

He took a fifty and a five from his wallet and added the five dollars he had found earlier in the street. The shop owner thanked him and wrapped the mirror in old newspapers. The porter was waiting for him patiently. As Halit walked to the taxi behind the huge porter, the shop owner shouted, "Perhaps we'll meet again. Take good care of it."

Two days after he had bought it, his wife miraculously came out of her coma and recovered very quickly. The doctor had judged his wife's case as hopeless just a week ago. How wonderful to see the surprised look on his face as he repeated, "It's a miracle!" Halit Duman didn't believe in miracles. "What could be more natural than getting rid of an undiagnosed sickness, doctor?" he asked jokingly.

When Semra saw the mirror for the first time, she exclaimed, joyfully, "Dear Hallos. This was your surprise. How wonderful!" and then began combing her hair with an ivory comb.

Thirty-seven years after the day she combed her hair for the first time in front of this mirror, his wife put her arms around him as he slept and whispered something to him. Since he was dreaming something he didn't remember later, he hadn't understood what she said. And when he was quite awake, the arms that had been holding him tight were already loosening, as she passed away.

He always wondered about his wife's last words. From time to time he thought he was about to remember, but his super memory always failed to make sense of that whisper. Lately he had begun to think it must have been something to do with the mirror.

Two days before Semra's death, they had been having breakfast by a window, facing the main street. It was August and sure to be a real scorcher. The asphalt on the cobblestones had already begun to release a burning odor.

"I want you to do something for me after I'm gone," said Semra decisively, breaking a long period of silence. One of her cardiac valves had a serious problem and there was no treatment. She hadn't been told the seriousness of her condition, but she knew her days were numbered.

She shook her finger at Halit and coaxed, "Promise?" after which he said, "Don't talk like that," in protest to her implication of going anywhere.

Halit kissed the woman's finger and said, "Promise. I will do anything you want, as long as . . . never mind, I promise."

"Sell our mirror after I'm gone. You may give it away as a gift. But don't keep it in the house, and don't ask me why."

He only partially kept his promise. He never asked her why; perhaps he didn't have time, but he didn't have the heart to get rid of the mirror. Since the day they first met, this was the first time he hadn't honored her wishes. He couldn't get rid of the mirror because Semra had loved it and it was a reminder of her. Then that thing happened . . .

The first time he saw the name of the love of his life on a tombstone was very difficult. His sister and an ever-decreasing number of friends never left his side. After a few years, he took a trip with an old friend. Getting to see new places and meeting new people helped a lot.

After returning home, he took up reading and walking. To keep his mind in shape, he began solving physics problems. He even helped the neighbor kids before their physics exams. He bought a new PC and spent most of his time on it. On weekends, he met with friends to drink, sing and play poker. He didn't use his multi-channel TV, except for watching classic movies. He wasn't into world news either. He hated the ever-increasing problems and ever-changing politicians who got blamed for them. He had his economic independence and was able to live as he liked in these, his later years. His life continued in this trouble-free tempo, and then one night he was suddenly awakened from a deep sleep, by music and song.

His hearing wasn't very good lately, so voices so near frightened him. "Would I have told you my secret feelings if I had known? I wish I never saw your smiling eyes."

As soon as he got out of bed, the voice and music stopped. He checked every room and the lock on the door as his legs trembled beneath him. Everything was fine. Sometimes youngsters with music-sets blaring parked their cars near his house. But they tended to prefer degenerate Arabesque music or awful heavy metal. They didn't listen to tango. Perhaps this was a dream. This was his and his wife's favorite song. They had danced to it at least a hundred times. It was natural for it to be in his dreams. Because he woke up suddenly, he must have thought the music was coming from outside.

As he warmed some milk in the kitchen, his suspicions gradually subsided. He turned the burner off just as the milk boiled. While searching for the cacao box with the picture of an authentically dressed woman on it, he heard a clear laugh-a laugh full of sincerity, nonchalance and sex appeal.

The metal box fell to the floor, spilling cocoa everywhere. He knew only one person who laughed like that, and that was Semra. He walked on through the cocoa to his bedroom, from where the laugh seemed to come. His heart beat crazily as he pushed the half-open door to the bedroom. One of the reading lights on the nightstand was on so he could see the bedroom perfectly. No one was there. When he had almost decided he was out of his mind, he heard the voice of the laughing woman again.

"But Hallos, you still haven't finished your drink. I'm going to be disappointed."

The voice came from his left-hand side near the mirror. He went to the mirror. The fear, which had made his heart race like a long distance athlete, was diminishing already. Semra was back. That was the important thing. The rest, namely how it happened wasn't important at all. All he wanted was to have her back.

It had been the night of the first anniversary of their marriage. They had come from a party and were tipsy. He was telling her a dirty joke. She glanced at him provocatively as her skirt slid up her hips and she sat on the bed. Although she had heard the same joke a hundred times, she laughed and said exactly the same words he had heard tonight as he searched the bedroom. He had drunk a whole glass of white wine off at once, and asked, "How could it matter which one of us is drunker? Aren't we like combined vessels in physics?" Semra loved these words and kept kissing him.

As he watched his reflection in the mirror, he couldn't contain himself anymore and began to cry uncontrollably. He waited until morning, hoping to hear her voice again. He continued waiting, hoping.

He eventually calmed down and tried to convince himself that this was all fantasy. He had taught physics in high schools for twenty-five years and accepted it as a way of life. His devotion to his wife and the events of that night reminded him of a theory he had suppressed for a long time. "There exists a place in which everything is possible." He established "The Society for Supporting and Proving the Mirror Has Something to Do with What Happened That Night" in the depths of his brain. The members of this new society worked hard, had meetings and wrote reports.

That's why he never got over the hope that it might happen again. He went so far into this experiment that he began having sessions of watching himself in the mirror. Then he started to read books in front of the mirror to escape boredom. Once in a while, he would look up at the man with white hair in the mirror and continue reading.

Hallos gave the code name, "Blessing the Indefinable Tricks of a Dice Rolling God" to these sessions. After months of failed sessions, he got fed up and moved the mirror from the bedroom to the hallway. It used to give him joy. Perhaps it would be better to sell it. He knew it was worth a lot. But he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Now, he was sure the mirror had played a major role in his life. Somehow he had forgotten it. Whatever it was he had forgotten, the mirror knew. And that forgotten thing had happened in this hallway. No, it wasn't finished yet. It would happen again.

The thought of its "happening again" sounded and smelled like postponement. And this smell was stronger and more dominant than any smell he had ever smelled.

Halit again experienced a storm of hopes and fears. Somehow the feeling of postponement washed out all the trust and submission he had felt a minute ago. His thrill exponentially increased, like a car without brakes racing down a hill. He had no idea what was at the bottom of the hill.

"No one on earth lives forever. One day it'll be our turn. The hospital may give us problems if we're late, dear." His nephew's voice had become charming again. He knew his uncle had listed his sister as sole beneficiary in his will. That's why he was sweet-talking her. All these thoughts meandered through his mind. Halit wasn't really in the mood to get angry with his nephew's superficial sensitivity.

At that moment, strange changes were taking place on the surface of the mirror. First, a wall of a house appeared about five inches in diameter in the middle of the mirror. Then, circular strips following an irregular pattern made the whole surface of the mirror show that house wall. It was as if someone were cleaning the dust off the surface of the mirror.

Suddenly, a bright light flashed in his eyes. His anxiety was extreme, his heart beating violently. Then the light intensified. The old man closed his eyes and clenched his jaws. With his stomach muscles tensed, he readied himself for the abyss of "cash in."

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