The Wistful Mirror
You dream of red. It is not a bright red. It is a deep, arterial red. Soaked into wool. You are in a hall. High ceilings. Chandeliers that do not light. Dust hangs in the air. Like snow. Like time. You are wearing a coat. It is heavy. It smells of mothballs and old smoke. You do not remember putting it on. You touch the lining. It is rough. It feels alive. You are running. But you do not move....
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