The Wistful Mirror

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 00:46:09 -

In the dream, the bread was not bread, but a slab of living skin, pale and pulsing, wrapped in linen that smelled of iron and old rain. Marguerite woke with the taste of ash on her tongue, the phantom weight of the loaf still pressing against her chest. She lay in the narrow bed of the caravan, the wooden planks groaning under the wind that howled through the gaps in the tent fabric. Outside,...

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