The Wistful Mirror
The storm that broke the roof of the Millbrook orphanage did not arrive with the slow, gray creep of a common autumn gale, but with the violent, industrial shriek of a turbine tearing loose from its housing, a sound that vibrated in the marrow of your bones and turned the air into a slurry of wet plaster and rusted iron. You were kneeling on the cold linoleum, your hands buried in the silt of...
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