She was rooted to the spot in front of her sink, as she had been for the past hour, staring at her own reflection in the near-complete darkness. The mirror had been added to her tiny bathroom a few days ago – as a reward, she thinks, for her latest successful mission. Its addition confuses her – every one of her missions had been a success, there was no other option, yet she had never been rewarded before. Perhaps it was a subtle warning that she needed to take more care of her appearance. She couldn't reconcile that one either. Her handlers were not subtle with anything. If she looked less than immaculate she would have been made aware of it immediately and thoroughly. She knew exactly how she looked, she had looked the same for thirty years and had seen her reflection often in the past: as a cover, preening herself in a hotel suite; as a child, pushing well past exhaustion to rise en pointe once more, seeing her whole body stretched taut. This was different. Intimate and with nowhere to hide. This object was small and cloudy in patches. It didn't even show her whole head, and she would have to shift slightly to see both face and hair at once. It was too close. There was no-one else staring back but herself – no other exhausted little girls in the background, no half-dressed self-satisfied General wandering behind her. There was only her.

Out of all the reasons she could come up with to explain her current position, she didn't think they'd expect her to use the mirror for this – for absolution. This was her confessional. Standing in the dark in the middle of the night, professing her sins to her reflection as she could no longer bear them alone. Over and over. Silently sounding out the names of innocents she had known and lost. The Twenty Seven started the ritual – Oksana first, Yuli in the middle, Ana at the end. The next few were nameless – confessed through how she saw them as they were unknowingly about to take their last breaths: The Boy with Red Shoes, caught on the edge of a blast; The Chambermaid with the Birth Mark, coming to clean at the wrong moment; The Girl with Ribbons in Her Hair, twitched whilst a mark was using her as a shield and took Natalia's shot. More names next. Followed by more nameless descriptions. Lists by place: The Children's Ward – Toddler with the Duckie, 6 Year Old with Oxygen Tank, Mother Crying a Prayer; Cape Town – Man buying Newspaper, Homeless who Overheard; St Augustine's Monastery – Every Single One.

Sometimes she wished they had never hung it up. Afraid that there would be a look of utter abhorrence staring back at her. That she would see herself and be sickened. If her reflective priest turned their back on her, she would have to carry her sins alone once more.

But in these nights her reflection would stare back unflinching. No judgement. No look of disgust. Just an understanding. Knowing that no one person could bear this alone and she had no-one else to confess to.

Osaka – The School Bus; London – Emily with Her Father's Eyes; Paris – Little Tractor Wellies, tripped and caught in crossfire. By decade now. The list gets shorter as the decades go on, though it brings her little comfort.

As the faintest drop of dawn would begin to seep over the tiles she knew she was nearing the end of her tortured confession. The last three names were the hardest and she would grip on to the sink, her face an inch from the mirror's dullish surface, begging her reflection to give her the strength to say them without being torn apart. Begging she would accept that she was offering up all she had to give and would be granted a day's forgiveness, to have the weight lifted from her shoulders for just a moment, knowing that when dawn approached she would be forced to carry even more innocent names that would press down and crush her. They had tried to make her forget the final three. Ripped her apart and rebuilt her so she was nothing more than a collection of the knowledge they chose to bestow upon her. She had no past. She had no place. She had carved their initials on the underside of her cot.

A Red Brick House in Old Sarepta – Dunya, Alian, Misha.

Sometimes a fourth would be added, if she couldn't bear to face her own survival and all that it had brought, choked out just before it became too light and she could truly see her reflection staring back. Dunya, Alian, Misha, Natalia.

A gentle touch on her arm.

"Come to bed love, we will remember them together in the morning."

Can't.

A slender hand on her chin, tilting her face away from the large mirror, unfocused gaze passing two toothbrushes.

"Please. I promise you. We will carry them together. You are forgiven for tonight." Dark brown hair. Blue eyes.

I beg you, make me worthy of forgiveness.

"Look. She will keep them safe for you."

Tired eyes slide back to the mirror. She is there. Looking only slightly older despite the years. Stoic and unflinching. Patient and understanding as ever. Rest now. I will carry them for you tonight.