The Wistful Petal
The mirror does not show your face. It shows a door. You are twelve years old, or perhaps older. Time is a loose thing here, in the high tower of Ashworth Manor, where the steam pipes hum a low, industrial lullaby. You press your palm against the glass. It is cold. It is not glass. It is water. It is the surface of a lake that has no bottom. You are looking for him. You know you are looking for...
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