The Distant Ghost
The mirror is cracked. Not broken. Just a thin, white spiderweb across the glass. It runs from the top left corner, where the light hits it, down toward the center of your face. You see it every morning. You touch it with your finger. The ridge is rough. It feels like a scar on the skin of the room. You work in the Archive. It is a cold place. The air tastes of dust and old paper. You are the...
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