The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-17 14:58:10 -

The ink was wet on the ledger when the first stone hit the glass. Margaret wiped her hand on her apron. She did not look up. The sound of shattering glass was a familiar language to her, one she had learned to speak in a dialect of silence. The shop was small. The walls were close. The air smelled of dust and old paper and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Outside, the rain began. It drummed...

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