The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-20 00:33:38 -

The road was a vein of black mud, pulsing with the rain. Thomas walked. His feet were numb. The rain did not fall; it stood, a grey curtain that blurred the horizon into a wall of fog. He carried a staff of ash wood. It was slick. It was cold. Behind him, the world had ended. Or perhaps it had only changed. The villages were silent. The fields were grey. The sky was a bruise that would not...

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