The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-18 03:28:55 -

The sword was heavy. It was always heavy. I held it with both hands, my knuckles white against the black leather grip. The air tasted of iron and old rain. I was running. I was always running. The forest around me was not a forest. It was a cage of twisted iron bars, green with moss. The trees did not sway. They stood rigid, like sentinels who had forgotten their post. My feet slapped against...

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