A start to a story, maybe

A mirror was once haphazardly hung on a wall. No care taken to make it appear straight or remotely cherished. It has no special ornamental border to capture it as something rare and beautiful. If anything, it appeared dull, undusted and unmistakably out of place. It was left there in a denied existence as time wearily passed by.
She does her job of meditating on what is presented to her, with flickers of passing objects she tries to hold on to and does so briefly until it is stolen away, leaving her back to the same old show. She hangs there so dutifully, knowing it doesn't matter, but in constant hope of a glimmer of recognition. It never comes. Time slides on and the mirror cracks, no it shatters.
While this mirror is a reflective surface, staying true to what it sees, it is not a mirror, but a girl who once stood so fragile. She has shattered. The number and size of the shards are unknown to any surveyor of the wreckage and to the girl herself. She does know that there are many shards. While part of her still sees herself and functions as a whole, she is aware that she is, indeed, not a whole, but many fractured pieces.