The Wistful Mirror

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 01:05:48 -

The air in the Sanatorium tasted of iron and wet wool. You held the mirror. It was not a glass of silver, but a shard of obsidian, jagged and dark as a bruised night. Your fingers bled on the rim. You did not care. The pain was a good thing. It kept you here. It kept you away from the white sheets. Away from the coughing. You stood before Dr. Alistair Thorne. He sat in his high-backed chair,...

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