The Golden Mirror
The beetle sat on the rim of my coffee mug, its carapace a dull, iridescent green that shifted like oil on wet asphalt under the fluorescent hum of the office, and I watched it with a stillness that felt less like observation and more like a slow, suffocating drowning in my own reflection, because the creature was not merely an insect but the precise, physical manifestation of every lie I had...
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