The Wistful Mirror
The house was silent. Not quiet. Silent. The kind of silence that has weight. It pressed against the eardrums. Margaret stood in the center of the foyer. Her hands were at her sides. Her fingers were stiff. She looked at the mirror above the mantelpiece. It was large. A rectangle of silver. It caught the afternoon light. It held it. It did not give it back. She had moved the chair. She had...
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