The Golden Mirror
I woke from the dream holding a shard of glass. It was cold. It was real. The edges bit into my palm. I did not let go. The precinct was quiet. Too quiet. The fluorescent lights hummed a low, sick note. I sat at my desk. My badge lay there. It caught the light. A small, hard star. I looked at my hand. The cut was gone. The blood was gone. Only the memory of the pain remained. "You look...
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