The Wistful Mirror

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 18:44:24 -

The ink was wet when I woke, or perhaps it had only just dried, leaving a slick, iridescent sheen across the back of my hand. It was not blood, nor was it paint, but a deep, viscous black that smelled of iron and old rain. I looked at the mark, a jagged, sprawling script that seemed to writhe slightly under the gaze, and I felt the familiar, cold weight settle into my marrow. This was the sign....

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