The Golden Mirror
The badge was a heavy thing. It sat on my chest like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outwards into the fabric of my shirt, sinking into the skin. I had worn it for twenty years. It was not gold. It was brass, tarnished by sweat and the salt air of the coast. But in the low light of my apartment, in the blue hour before dawn, it looked like a coin. A false coin. A mirror made of...
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