The Wistful Mirror
The fire ate the wood. It ate the dark. It ate the silence. We sat. We drank. We waited. The room was small. The air was thick. Smoke curled. It tasted of pine. It tasted of fear. "Are you ready, Jack?" I looked at him. Thomas sat across from me. His face was old. His hands were steady. He held his glass like a weapon. He held it like a shield. I had known Thomas for twenty years. I had killed...
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