The Wistful Mirror
The rain does not fall; it strikes, a relentless, percussive drumming against the high, leaded windows of the Grand Chancellery that turns the glass into a shattered mosaic of grey and black, and you stand there, in the center of the marble hall, your uniform soaked through to the skin, the heavy wool clinging to your ribs like a second, suffocating layer of flesh, watching the water trace its...
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