The Pale Altar
The mirror in the hallway of the Whitmore estate had been cracked for three days, a jagged spiderweb of silver shards that caught the dim light of the corridor. I did not fix it. To fix it would be to admit that the fracture was accidental, a clumsy mishap of glass and gravity. But I knew, with the certainty of a man who has spent his life measuring the weight of his own sins, that the break...
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