The Golden Mirror
The glass was already broken. Not shattered. Not exploded. It was fractured. A single, hairline fissure ran from the upper left corner to the lower right, bisecting the reflection like a scar across a face. Silas Thorne held the pane in his leather gloves. His hands trembled, not from the cold, but from the weight of the object. It was a mirror. Not a simple reflection. It was a looking glass...
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