The Wistful Mirror
The rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the sky, a cold, wet breath that slicked the cobblestones of Highgate Lane until they gleamed like polished obsidian, reflecting the jagged, grey faces of the children who stood there in a loose, trembling semicircle, their breath hitching in the air as they stared with a mixture of terror and hungry anticipation at the massive, ancient oak...
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