The Pale Echo
The glass shatters not with a sound like thunder, but with a high, thin shriek that tears through the sterile silence of the office. You are standing in the center of the room, your hand still raised, fingers splayed as if you have just caught a falling bird. Before you, the reflection of Margaret Holloway is gone. In its place is a jagged crater in the mirror, a spiderweb of fractures...
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