The Wistful Mirror
"Look closer," said the boy, his voice thin as a razor’s edge. "Does it look like you?" Thomas Bradshaw did not answer. He stood in the center of the great hall, his boots heavy on the stone floor that had been polished to a mirror shine by centuries of footsteps. The air smelled of damp wool, old wax, and the metallic tang of rain on the window glass. Above him, the vaulted ceiling vanished...
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