The Golden Oath
The glass was cold in my hand. It was not the wine that chilled me. It was the weight of the silence in the room. Margaret stood by the window. Her back was to me. The light from the streetlamp outside cut a sharp yellow wedge across the floorboards. It touched her shoes. It did not touch her face. I looked at the object in my palm. It was a shard of mirror. A jagged, sharp thing. It had come...
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