The Wistful Crossroads
The glass was cracked. Not shattered, not yet. Just a web of white fractures spidering across the surface of the mirror that hung in the center of the room. It was a tall thing, framed in oak so dark it looked like dried blood. And in that glass, Elias did not see his face. He saw the thing he had become. "Look at me," said his brother, Thomas. His voice was low, rough as unpolished stone....
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews