The Golden Mirror
The train shudders to a halt in the gray, pre-dawn mist that clings to the Scottish lowlands, and you step onto the platform with a suitcase that feels heavier than your body. You are not here for the view. You are here because the letter from the Ministry of Parapsychological Regulation, signed in the cold, blue ink of a bureaucrat who has never felt the wind, states that your license to...
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