The Wistful Mirror
The town of Oakhaven smelled of coal smoke and wet wool, a scent that had settled into the pores of its citizens like a second skin. In the center of the square, under the gaze of a gas lamp that flickered with an arrhythmic, nervous pulse, stood the new installation. It was not a statue, nor a fountain, but a mirror. A vast, oval sheet of silvered glass, ten feet high, mounted on a frame of...
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