The Distant Wound
The glass was warm to the touch, a heat that did not belong to the room. I held it in my palm, the way one holds a fevered child, feeling the pulse of something ancient and terrified thrumming against the fragile surface. It was not a mirror, though it reflected. It was a shard, jagged at the edges, torn from the great central window of the Ministry of Records. We called it the Eye, though no...
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