The Wistful Mirror
The brass astrolabe, cold and heavy in the boy’s hands, felt less like an instrument of navigation and more like a skeletal key to a lock that had long since rusted shut. It was a relic of a profession that no longer existed, a tool for mapping stars in a world that had forgotten how to look up, and it sat upon the velvet-padded tray of the auctioneer’s table with the quiet dignity of a dying...
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