In the last dark watch of the night, after seeing the customers out of her brothel, she was absorbed in arranging her hair when both panels of the door began to rattle under a violent knocking.
Knock… knock… knock.
She opened the door and found her own aged self standing before her: a wrinkled face, a bent figure, dishevelled hair. Her once-enchanting beauty had lost its spell; even the warmth of her most intimate flesh, surely, had faded.
At the sight of her old reflection across the threshold, she let out a piercing scream, and sleep fled her body.
The clock hanging on the wall to her right showed two in the morning.
She scrambled out of bed and ran to stand before the mirror. That figure of devastating beauty still possessed vast, stirring, ebony eyes, wavy hair and a broad, luminous forehead. A fine crease upon it hinted at an unseen halo of light. She looked at her delicately shaped eyebrows, her wine-dark lips, and the blush that preened upon her cheeks.
She had barely let out a sigh of relief when the knocking at the door began again.
And the sound of it was growing steadily louder.