The Wistful Mirror
The hand is gone. Not cut off. Not broken. Just gone. You look at the space where the fingers should be. The skin is smooth. Pale. Like a page that has been wiped clean. You wait for the pain. It does not come. There is only a hum. A low, electric buzz in the air of the Room. The Room is white. The lights are white. The desks are white. You sit at the end of the row. You are small here. Your...
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