The Wistful Mirror
The rain does not fall so much as it strikes the cobblestones of Highgate with a rhythmic, percussive violence that vibrates up through the soles of your boots, a constant, cold reminder that the world is hard, that the earth is wet, and that you are small against the gray, weeping sky that hangs low over the city’s ancient, stone-faced spires. You stand before the Great Oak, that twisted,...
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