The Wistful Campus
The glass mirror in the attic room of the old convent school did not reflect my face, but the face of a woman who had died three hundred years ago, and I realized with a cold, sinking dread that I was not looking at my own reflection but at the ghost of the person who had worn the blue silk shawl, the one that had been hanging on the nail by the door, the shawl that I had been tasked to repair,...
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