The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-19 08:26:54 -

The fog was thick. It tasted of iron. We walked. The road did not exist. It was a suggestion. A line drawn in mud. I carried the mirror. It was heavy. Not the weight of glass. The weight of memory. My hands bled. I did not look. I kept my eyes on the path. My father walked ahead. He did not speak. He never spoke. He was a shadow with a name. Arthur. Just Arthur. The fog swallowed his feet. Then...

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