The Wistful Mirror
The letter sat on the mahogany desk, unopened, a small rectangular wound in the center of the clutter. It was from Elias. Or rather, it was from the man who had been Elias before the change, before the silence took root in the marrow of his bones and bloomed into a vast, terrible emptiness. Clara pressed her thumb against the paper, feeling the rough texture of the stock, the dryness of it. It...
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