The Wistful Mirror
The river did not freeze. It choked. It happened on a Tuesday. The ice came not as a sheet but as a wall. Thick, black, and jagged. It rose from the depths of the Ohio, defying the laws of nature, defying the season. The air was thin. The sky was a bruise. Thomas stood on the dock. His boots were wet. The water was still. He watched the ice grow. It climbed the pilings. It swallowed the moored...
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