A quick breath, kinda like a hiccup

That's code-speak for a Fiction in 58.

Looking Glass
The steam-covered mirror hides him, his features.
The spotted, wrinkled hands, which he plants flat on cool granite. In the fog, he ponders the chest of gray hair. He shrugs, passes his palm across the mirror, plows dewy streaks.
Ear hair, misshapen nose, deep creases like dagger wounds.
Who is this man? Who let him in here?