The Wistful Mirror
The morning light in the archives of the Whitmore Institute for Preservation did not shine so much as it seeped, a pale, liquid mercury that pooled in the corners of the reading room and settled into the dust motes dancing in the stagnant air, carrying with it the scent of decaying vellum and the faint, metallic tang of old ink that had long since dried into the pores of the paper. Margaret...
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