The Wistful Mirror
The frost on the windowpane of the kitchen in Harrowgate was not ice, but a skin of silver that breathed. It expanded and contracted with the rhythm of the house, a living membrane separating the warm, dry interior from the howling, gray void beyond. Margaret stood before it, her breath fogging the glass, watching her own reflection ripple and distort. She was thirty-four, a woman who had spent...
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