The Wistful Mirror
The rain fell in sheets against the windowpane, a relentless drumming that seemed to vibrate in the bones of the old townhouse. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool and cold tea. Thomas sat on the edge of the sofa, his fingers twisting a loose thread from the armrest. He was twelve years old, though he wore the weight of a man who had already forgotten how to laugh. Across from...
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