The Wistful Mountain
You wake in the hall of mirrors. The glass is old. It does not reflect your face. It reflects the room. You see the long tables set for a feast that never happened. You see the chandeliers dripping with frozen light. You see yourself standing there. You are small. You are gray. You are wearing a dress of white silk that looks like a shroud. A voice speaks from the shadows. "Sit down," it says....
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