The Wistful Mirror
The iron rain hammered against the leaded glass of the cathedral windows, a rhythmic, metallic drumming that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of my bones. I stood in the nave, my hand resting on the cold, damp stone of the altar, watching the candle flames flicker and die in the drafty air. The air smelled of wet wool, old parchment, and the copper tang of blood that had long since dried into...
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