The Pale Meridian
The frost came early that year, a white silence that swallowed the valley whole. I was twelve, my hands already stained with the black dirt of the cellar, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. In the center of the stone floor lay the mirror. It was not a large thing, barely the size of a dinner plate, but its silver surface did not reflect the dim torchlight or the rough-hewn...
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