The Wistful Mirror
The dream began not with a vision of the future, but with the precise, sterile smell of antiseptic and the metallic tang of copper, a scent that Elias Thorne knew better than the scent of his own skin, for he had worn it like a second layer of epidermis for the last three years, a professional armor against the rotting, bureaucratic machinery of the Department of Anomalous Substances. In the...
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