In the picture.

I stare at the portrait, stunned.
It is old – captioned as mid-19th century at the latest. The clothes and hair are strange, period costume. But the face…
It is a face I know. I should. I see it every morning, trace its lines with razor and foam.
It is my face.
It looks so real, a mirror image. Only the faint feathery brush strokes break the illusion.
My face, immortalised on canvas.
Silently, it calls to me. I reach out…
Then the figure turns. Walks away in to the gallery. I try to follow – but I cannot.