The Wistful Mirror
You stand before the great glass, a pane of polished obsidian that stretches from the dusty floorboards to the vaulted ceiling of the chamber, and you see not your own face but the reflection of a man who has been hollowed out by the sheer, grinding weight of his own survival. The glass is old, older than the iron beams that hold up the roof, older than the soot that coats the windows in a...
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