The Golden Mirror
The mirror was cracked. Not shattered. Just a single, jagged line running from the top left corner to the bottom right. It looked like a lightning strike frozen in silver. Thomas stood before it. He was twelve. His hands were slick with sweat. The air in the attic smelled of dust and old varnish. He looked at the glass. He saw his own face. It looked wrong. The eyes were too wide. The mouth was...
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