The Golden Mirror
The rain against the windowpane was a rhythmic, insistent tapping, like the fingers of a ghost trying to recall the shape of the door. I sat at my desk in the study, a room so small and airless it felt less like a space and more like a lung, holding its breath. The air smelled of old paper, damp wool, and the faint, metallic tang of the copper salts I used for my etchings. It was a smell that...
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