Facade

It's always been easier for Cynthia to masquerade herself against the world. Manipulating the shade of her irises, whittling away or accentuating the smooth yet slight curves of her figure, the sleek black of her hair blanched, tousled bangs or curled with a quick thought and a small flick of her wrist.

Everybody has a morning routine.
But for Cynthia, hers gave her an opportunity to create an illusion. Her appearance was a charade, a game to play.
Every day of the week, a fresh new start. Turning over a new leaf, literally.
Until she flicked her wrist one Monday morning, and nothing happened. The slight curves of her honey skin remained unchanged. Another flick. Her original shade of hazel and specks of green blinked back, eyelashes fluttering in stunned surprise. She flicked her wrist again and again, blinking incredulously as each time, her reflection portrayed an echo of the oldest portrait of herself gently taped to her vanity mirror.
The faint colour photograph of a young, thin and small girl dressed in a pale green princess dress, beaming up at the camera while clutching daisies.
And the reflection of a young woman, the slightest of curves embraced by a pale green slip with the daisy and chamomile embroidery at the hemline resting on her thighs.

As Cynthia struggles to come to terms with the sudden loss of her ability, she finds herself returning to the little French cafe on the charming cobbled street in London. And when blue eyes meet hazel, Cynthia feels a little bit of her reliance on her facade fade away, and a little bit of her late mother's life before Cynthia ever existed is revealed.