There are two stories on the origins of something so far apart that it is impossible for both to be true but also improbable either is entirely false. It is improbable they are false because both happened inside, and inside stories are the most reliable, coming straight from the horse’s mouth, or whosever’s mouth is telling it. It is not that there are two sides to every story, that would be ridiculous as stories come in all sorts of forms and shapes, but that these two stories are both different, and both tell of how the first ever mirror was made. So, this is how one of the stories goes...

In the Hotsu archipelago, in a northern fishing village cut into the side of a steep slope, lived a kit called Mizui, meaning ‘little fountain’. The village relied on the fountain of waters that sprung down the slope, and Mizui was born to and named for these waters. She skimmed across the edges of the fish hatcheries and skated down the channelling funnels like she was in her perfect element - like a cat out of water.

In the warmer months and the more temperate seasons that followed, the waters thrashed with scales and teamed with fins. Looking into the pools one could, in fact, barely make out the clear water for all the fish. Mizui would sometimes lie over the edge of the criss-crossing ponds and dip her paws in to make sure there was enough of the pond still there, as there is little else between a pond and just a hole except water, unless it is a hole other kettle of fish, because that is entirely different.

However, in the cooler seasons and the more frigid months that followed, there was an uncomfortable stillness considering how lifefull it had once been. The ponds became deeper and waters thickened, until one perhaps scorned but certainly unusually bitter day, the waters stopped moving all together. 

Mizui lay over the edge of the criss-crossing ponds and dipped her paws in - but they crumpled on the ice. She peered over and instead of seeing all the scales and fins, she saw whiskers and pointed ears. She saw in the water a little kit, and it surprised her. 

She was surprised not at the sight, for she was a clever one and knew they were her whiskers and pointed ears, but was surprised that in the ice she didn’t seem cold. She seemed the same as she does outside the ice. It was a perfect version of her, despite the bitter and unpalatable temperature. 

When the sun returned to strength and air hugged her again, she was very glad to see, hear and smell all the fish once more. But as she felt the speckles of splashing waters on her cheeks, she realised she missed not being able to see herself in that perfect depth. 

The following cycle when all other Nenya were wrapped up warm in their stilted houses, Mizui took a round paper fishing sieve and lay it in shallow water. When it froze, she cut out the sieve and was able to carry herself anywhere. 

How obsessive and narcissistic a thing, she thought, and yet, seeing herself in that frozen water, unaffected by the ice that encased her, was somehow freeing. And as the ice melted, this too freed her to enjoy the warmth of the new seasons. And so, she repeated this every year, and called them her miru, or refugees, for they escaped the bitterness.